


The Great Merlin Bake Off

by Elizabeth



Category: Merlin (TV), The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Baking, Cake, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Disastrous Frosting Incidents, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Graphic depictions of Food, M/M, Pining, UST, meringue for days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:10:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Note 5 Sep '19: I am going to finish this story, just very busy with everything. I haven't dropped it and am not on hiatus, I'm just busy and slow. Much love!Because someone said, "What if it's Merlin, but they're on Bake Off?"AKA: The GBBO AU. It was bound to happen at some point.I don't know what else to say, really, except that there's cake and pining. And I'm writing it, which means it'll probably be a slow burn.





	1. Cake Week

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a beta, and I apologize for all errors.
> 
> I do not own these characters or the people mentioned, nor do I profit from this in any way (other than love and happiness from sharing).
> 
>  
> 
> Posting and intending to edit as I look back and catch typos. Too exhausted with it right now. If you spot any, please feel free to tell me on Tumblr. Thanks!

Merlin has been to Welford Park to see the snowdrops, but that was years ago. It is April, and this year’s bloom has already ended. He takes a few careful steps on the cobblestone path and breathes in cool, spring air. The snowdrops are long gone, but spring is here and white, purple, and yellow flowers fill the air with honey and sweet. Merlin lets out a long breath and grins. There it is: the long white tent, already filled with furious activity. It is springtime in Berkshire, and Bake Off has begun.

His heart pounds. Finally. _Finally_ , it’s time. He’s been waiting for months and dreaming for even longer. The manor, today, looks even larger than before. His hands shake and he stops, looking up at it, at the treetops, at the puffy white clouds in the perfect blue sky. And then everything goes topsy-turvy as he’s tumbled, unceremoniously, to the ground. His elbow scrapes gravel; his knee stings.

The dew soaks into his trousers from the grass, and his hands, when he rights himself, are covered in dirt. His palm is bleeding where a piece of gravel has pierced his skin. He looks up. “Sorry, there. Not a good place to stop, I’ll say.” The voice is posh and articulate, and its owner is golden and shining in the morning light, so Merlin refuses to take his hand.

“Way to watch where you’re walking,” he says instead, brushing himself off and striding away.

“You were the one to stop right in front of me,” the man says, quick-stepping to keep up with him. He ignores him until he feels a hand clamp onto his shoulder. “Hey—”

“Don’t touch me,” he says. He spins and glares at the man, angrily ignoring anything but the knowledge he’s paying attention. “I’m wet,” he motions to his knees, “and bleeding,” he lifts his palms, “and we’re wearing these clothes for two days, so I need to clean it up. Now.” He turns around and mutters, “Prat,” under his breath as he walks away.

 

It isn’t an ideal start. It should be a fun beginning with Cake Week, and Noel and Sandi give pitying looks when they take in the rumpled clothes and blue plastic glove. A crew member shows him his station, and he drops his bag on the floor. It is beautiful: pastel cabinets and stainless steel ovens line the tent. Chic Smeg refrigerators and exquisitely designed floral arrangements bookend the area. Everything is pristine and Merlin feels like he’s in a dream.

A delighted squeal, soft and warm, pulls him back to reality. “Isn’t it amazing?” A beautiful young woman in a soft pink blouse stands at the station in front of him, lightly clapping her hands in delight.

“It really, really is,” he says. “I’m Merlin.” He reaches across to shake hands.

“Gwen,” she responds, smiling bright. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

“Me neither,” he says, tugging at the glove.

“Oh, no, what happened?” Her eyes widen as she takes in the rest of him.

“I got pushed over on the path in.” He shrugs.

“What? By who?”

The villain walks by just then, jaw clenching. His eyes flit away as Merlin looks at him, as if maybe he was watching but he doesn’t want to be caught. Merlin nods toward him, looking back at Gwen. Her eyes run down the blonde’s body. “Fit,” she whispers, blushing a little.

Merlin sighs. “And an arse, as per usual.” They giggle together and Merlin tries to forget the man who has taken the station behind him. “Speaking of…” he mutters. Gwen follows his gaze over her shoulders and gasps a little. She looks back at him, and then back at the man at the station in front of hers. He is tan with dark hair and a crimson jumper. His eyes have fixed on Gwen and he seems dumbstruck. “Morning,” Merlin calls to him.

He visibly shakes himself back to reality. “Good morning.” He responds to Merlin, but keeps his eyes on Gwen.

“This is Gwen,” Merlin says.

“Gwen. Wow. I mean, hello. Nice to meet you. I’m Lance.”

“Hi.”

“Merlin!” A crew member calls to him. “Interview time.” She leads him out to the tree line, where a stone bench sits amid uncut grass and wildflowers. The setting is overwhelmingly perfect and Merlin feels effervescent as he answers the questions. Yes, he’s excited; yes, he’s been practising. He’s just happy to be here, but of course he wants to do well.

Another crew member is leading the blonde prat out as Merlin walks back in, and he refuses to make eye contact. He won’t let himself be intimidated, and with any luck, the bully is a rubbish baker and won’t be here long. _Oh god,_ he thinks. _What if I’m rubbish and I’m not here long?_ He isn’t rubbish and he knows that, but the tent changes everything.

 

Everyone lines up and walks in together. Cameras are everywhere, and the anxiety is palpable. Six women and six men nervously smile at each other. Merlin gives Gwen a little hand-squeeze as they separate, and she bounces on her heels as she pulls on her apron. As Merlin dons his, he takes a good look around. It’s hard not to let his jaw drop. It may be Bake Off, but most of these bakers look like they could be on Love Island. Two of the men have clearly become fast friends, and they’re both shockingly muscled. He knows one is Percy and the other is Gwaine, but he can’t remember who is which. He struggles not to gawp at the biceps bulging as the tall one pulls on his apron. He’s across the aisle from Merlin and he flashes a good-natured grin at him. In front of the giant is the oldest contestant: a lady named Alice who anyone would love as a nan. A few other gorgeous young women finish the bunch, along with another man Merlin’s age with thin limbs and a narrow face. Merlin heard the crew call him Cedric, and he looks like his nerves are getting the best of him.

It’s Cake Week, and Merlin barely hears Sandi and Noel’s intro. He laughs along and tries to brace himself against Paul’s icy stare. He is intensely aware of the blonde behind him, who was joking around with a few of the others before their entrance. Merlin even saw Alice pat at his cheek, but he made sure they were never face to face.

The signature challenge is a Swiss roll, and Merlin has practised until he dreams of spiraling sponge. He’s finishing the hazelnut batter when Noel, Paul, and Prue stop in front of him. “Tell us about your Swiss roll,” says Prue.

“It’s hazelnut mocha,” Merlin explains.

“Classic,” says Noel.

Paul nods. “And this is a hazelnut sponge?” he asks.

“Yes.” Merlin switches off the stand mixer. It’s yellow and he wishes it was his. “Then I’ll flavour the ganache with espresso.”

“Do you drink a lot of espresso, Merlin?” Paul asks.

“Yeah,” he chuckles.

“Much this morning?”

“All week,” says Merlin.

“How many times have you made this this week?” asks Prue.

“Just four with this recipe.”

“Only four!” Noel exclaims.

“Well, my flatmate was sick of hazelnut by Wednesday.”

“Never!” says Noel. He snatches a piece of chopped nut from Merlin’s workstation and makes a ridiculous noise as he devours it. “I run on hazelnuts.” Merlin laughs, camera in face. They leave him to line his baking tins.

The blonde’s voice raises Merlin’s hackles. The trio has moved on to his station, and his voice sounds calm and assured. Merlin is aware of a camera capturing his every expression so he tries to not frown and peek over his shoulder. Instead, he looks forward and catches Cedric looking back. The man looks from the blonde to him and rolls his eyes. Merlin smiles, but he tries not to reciprocate. Sure, the blonde seems awful, but it feels against the spirit of the show to wish him ill, even if Merlin’s hand still smarts and his trousers feel stiff where the mud has dried.

The blonde’s laughter rings out again. “I hope so!” Merlin hears him say.

“I look forward to it,” Paul declares, voice carrying through the tent.

 

They have two and a half hours to complete the signature challenge, and Merlin can’t believe how fast the time goes. He operates on muscle memory, silently thankful Will is such a massive distraction at home. As it is, he’s used to limited space and constant interruption. Now, he is focused, almost in a trance. He allows himself a cup of tea as the sponge cools, but every other moment is a furious dash to finish in time.

“Bakers, you have five minutes,” Noel shouts from the corner. Merlin can’t hear Sandi’s reply because he is leaned over his roll, placing caramel hazelnut spikes along the top and finishing the plating. He glances up to see Gwen dusting icing sugar on her lemon and raspberry roll. She has candied flowers and berries to finish it and it is pretty as a picture.

The countdown comes and Merlin jumps back when it’s finished, fiddling with his up to the deadline. He takes a look around. Not everyone has fared well. Sponge has cracked. Some of the stations are covered in a nightmarish mess. Gwen’s roll looks nearly perfect, and Merlin is pleased to see his has a far more professional look than many others. He turns around.

The blonde sits on a stool behind his perfectly tidied station. His Swiss roll is at the end already, perfectly spiraled and presented. It is chocolate with a creamy brown filling and Merlin thinks, _Oh god, don’t be hazelnut_. Then he sees the hazelnut spikes. His stomach turns over. Before he can consider it further, the man says, “It looks like a pantry exploded over there.” Merlin looks back at his counter. He isn’t wrong. He knows the runners will take care of it, but he starts to tidy up.

“I can’t believe how fast that went,” Gwen says over her shoulder. She is wiping down the butcher block top. Crew members swarm them, and the volume level intensifies. Merlin grins. “Look at yours!” she exclaims. He pauses his cleaning and examines it, trying to see it with fresh eyes. Every smudge of ganache stands out. The spiral isn’t perfectly proportioned. Will everyone notice? A camera closes in on his face as he looks it over. He can hear the music they’ll play over the footage. At this point, everyone will know he’s been scrambling. They’ll wonder if he could have done more.

Gwen’s roll looks like springtime. After Merlin finishes cleaning, he steps around to inspect it. Her sponge has the perfect spiral, and it looks delicate and vibrant—exactly what Merlin wants on a sunny spring day like today. Not for the first time, he doubts his choice. Gwen’s eyes are wide and uncertain, so Merlin gives her his most reassuring smile. “That looks absolutely delicious,” he tells her. She grins and they hug, cameras still rolling but unimportant. It’s already apparent he’s found a friend for life.

The crew takes them each outside for another interview before the judging starts. Merlin overhears part of Gwen’s while he waits his turn.

“My brother’s friends are always hungry, so they’ve been happy this week. I’ve been carting loads of cake to the shop two or three times a day.”

“What kind of shop?” The woman asks. “Is that where you work?”

“It’s a metalworking shop that my dad owns. He started as a blacksmith in the mines, and now we mostly make jewelry, though we do lamps and picture frames, too. Gifts. I’ve been working there as long as I can remember—probably before I could even walk.”

“That’s amazing, Gwen,” says the woman. “So how do you feel about your bake?”

“I did my best. It’s amazing how fast the time goes, though. I expected I’d be nervous, but mostly I was in a daze. I hope I can be more in the moment and enjoy the rest of it. Though, who really enjoys the technical?”

“True. Thanks!” The woman gestures to Merlin. “Merlin, you’re next. That’s your mark, too. Great.” She smiles at him. “I’m Vivienne. I’ll be the primary crew member doing interviews, though not the only one. It’s my job to make sure there’s a narrative, personality. We want to tell your story here. I’ve watched your interview from the morning, and I’d like you to follow up on that. You’ve mentioned your flatmate a few times now. Would you like to add anything about him?”

“Will? Why?”

“We want to showcase you as a person with relationships. It invests viewers in your journey.”

“Right. Well, Will’s just Will. He’s been my best mate for years. We grew up together in Ealdor, but moved to London after uni.”

“Just a friend?”

“God yes. And he’s not…”

“Anyone in your life, then?”

Merlin’s face heats. “No, I’m all by myself. Sorry.” He shrugs.

“No need to apologize,” Vivienne assures him. “You’ll be getting all sorts of offers when this airs! The camera _loves_ your cheekbones." Movements to Merlin's right captures his attention. The blonde is lined up to be interrogated next. He glares at Merlin in a hostile way that takes Merlin aback. "So how did the signature go?”

“I can barely tell,” Merlin answers. “I didn’t have to restart, so that is a relief.”

“And what are your hopes for this weekend and the rest of the show?”

“I mean, of course I’d love to get a handshake or even Star Baker—if only once before I’m out. Mostly I’m just hoping I’m back next weekend.”

“Great. Thank you.” She looks over. “Arthur. Fabulous. You’re up, love.” She nods at Merlin and he walks out of the shot.

“How is your sister, darling?”

“She’s well,” Arthur says. His name is Arthur. Merlin groans a little. It’s impossible to grow up named Merlin and not be sensitive to other names with legendary origins. It seems like it could be a theme, given there’s a Gwen, Lance, Percy, and Gwaine. At least they’re easier to ignore than Merlin and Arthur. Twitter is going to have a field day.

“You all right, Merlin?” Vivienne asks.

Merlin shakes himself. “Yes—”

“Merlin?” Arthur looks skeptical and somehow affronted, as if Merlin has chosen to exist just to annoy him.

“Yes,” Merlin says. “I guess we weren’t introduced when you shoved me down earlier.”

Vivienne gasps. “Oh my. Arthur, really?”

Arthur gawps at them. “I did not _shove_ him. He stopped in the middle of the path and I ran into him!”

“Bad form, Arthur. You know that’s against the philosophy of what we do here.”

“Really, Aunt Viv, I did—”

“Aunt?” Merlin arches a brow at them.

“Oh, not aunt, love. Just godmother. It’s an expression.”

Merlin raises both brows and turns away. He’s pretty sure who’s winning the cake stand. How disappointing. He’s always thought Bake Off was pure—one of the only things on telly worth watching because of it. And here they are: a terrible prat named Arthur, of all things, is a bully who’ll probably be here until the end. Merlin sighs and returns to his station. A runner has left him a cuppa and he calls a thank you to whoever it was. It’s gone cool, but it’s still the perfect cup.

The caffeine gives him hope. The technical is blind, so anything can happen. He resolves to ignore Arthur and focus on himself.

It is immediately impossible. Arthur returns shortly, and Merlin can’t help but watch him walk through the tent. His shoulders are broad and straight, as if he is confident this is his rightful place. His eyes aren’t blue like Paul’s; they’re blue like a cloudless summer sky. Even the apron looks good. Merlin realizes he’s staring, so he looks away and finds other eyes on Arthur, too. Cedric’s look is angry—probably because his Swiss roll is a mess of split chocolate sponge and uneven buttercream. The man’s face is angrily streaked with cocoa and flour, and the contrast is jarring. One of the women—Mithian, maybe—is appreciative in a wistful, awkward manner Merlin identifies with on a spiritual level. When she looks up from Arthur’s bum, he tries to telegraph a “yes, I know, it’s terrible” to her. She laughs and gives him a cheeky grin. The other one staring is a voluptuous woman name Nimueh (Of course. Christ, what was the casting director thinking?), who wears an unreadable expression and then looks away and smiles. The judging begins before he can decipher it.

The whole process is both unbearably slow and terrifyingly quick. It feels like he’s waiting forever, yet everyone only receives a few seconds of feedback. Merlin leans toward every conversation, anxious to hear. “A mess,” Paul says.

“Not worth the calories,” says Prue. They hand out tips that Merlin has memorized from previous series. His heart pounds when it’s Gwen’s turn.

The initial reactions are quiet. He sees Gwen nod, but can’t hear the response. She rocks on her feet a few times. When he sees Sandi go in for a second bite and a third, then get tugged away by Prue, he realizes she’s smashed it. Lance looks back at her and says, “Well done,” sotto voce, and when Gwen turns to grin at Merlin her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright and threatening to spill over.

When the judges reach Merlin, his heartbeat is almost painful. “This is my mocha-nut roll.”

“It’s neat,” Paul says. He points to the end. “Nice spiral, clean finish.”

“I like these spikes,” says Sandi. “May I?” She reaches out.

“Of course!”

She snatches one and munches on it. “Mmm.”

“That’s not even the cake,” Prue laughs.

“But I love these,” Sandi says around the crunchy hazelnut.

“Well let’s see inside.” Paul slices the roll and pulls out a piece. Merlin lets out a relieved breath when he sees the spiral is intact.

“Good crumb,” Prue observes.

“But how does it taste?” Paul asks. He cuts off a piece and pops it in his mouth, chews, and swallows. Prue does the same. And they stare at him. Merlin can’t look away from Paul’s terrifying eyes. He’s going to have a heart attack because he knows this means they love it or it’s terrible.

Prue speaks first. “Good bake, that.”

Paul continues to stare at him. Merlin blinks.

“He’s glitching,” Sandi quips. “We need to do a factory reset.”

“I wasn’t sure this would turn out because of the nut in your sponge, but it works. The flavours you have here just go together and the ganache—it easily could be too thick and just paste everything together, but you have enough moisture that it doesn’t. I don’t know how. Merlin, you may be a wizard after all.”

The camera closes in on Merlin’s face as he smiles. He’s certain it’s a gormy, stupid grin, but he’s so relieved. It isn’t a handshake, but they like it. Merlin feels safe. He relaxes enough to turn halfway around and watch them talk to Arthur.

The man looks completely calm. His blonde hair is slightly mussed, but in a just-woke-up-after-coitus way that Merlin _refuses_ to consider sensual. His big pink lips are curved into a subtle, confident smile. Paul gestures to his Swiss roll. “Arthur, this looks almost professional. No crack in the sponge. Good spiral. But it’s what’s on the inside that counts.” He slices a piece and pulls it out. They each take a bite.

“You’ve done the hazelnuts, too!” Sandi sounds excited. She snatches one and pops it in her mouth. Merlin can’t see her reaction, so he can’t tell whose were better.

Paul and Prue are quiet again. And then Paul reaches out his hand. A gasp goes around the tent, followed by applause.

“The first Paul Hollywood handshake of the year!” Sandi nods. “Well then!”

“I love it,” Paul says. “That chocolate and hazelnut. We’ve seen these flavours a lot, but what you’ve managed to do here is bring out the best of each flavour without any compromise.”

Prue nods in agreement. “The texture is there, the proportion of sponge and buttercream is ideal. This really is a lovely cake.”

Arthur’s smile is enormous and Merlin looks away. Gwaine and Percy are also grinning at Arthur. Mithian and Gwen both look a little star-eyed at the display of gorgeous, smiling, muscle-bound men in aprons. Freya isn’t paying attention. Lance is watching Gwen watch Arthur, eyes melancholy. Cedric and Nimueh share an eye roll. It is a spiteful look and Merlin wants to ignore it, but Cedric follows it with a self-satisfied smile that leaves Merlin unsettled—especially considering his poor performance.

Another interview follows. Merlin tells Vivienne he’s pleased. Arthur passes him afterward, and his smile is ebullient. He opens his mouth like he’s going to speak, and Merlin stops on the path. Arthur keeps walking, so Merlin is left, consequently, half-turned after him, gaping a little.

“As if those posh toffs need more people to tell them how great they are.” Cedric steps across the lawn to Merlin. “Look at him. Of course he gets a handshake. Probably hired a private tutor before coming on. Can’t he just buy a publishing deal for a cookbook or whatever he’s after?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know who that is?”

“Arthur?”

“He’s a Pendragon.” When Merlin is quiet, Cedric scoffs like he’s a fool. “His father is Uther Pendragon. The politician. _The_ Pendragons.”

“Oh.” Merlin hadn’t realized the family was that on-the-nose with their naming habits. Merlin recalls what he knows about Lord Pendragon: Uther is known for his blend of borderline nationalist economic policy and shockingly regressive social views. This is _his_ son? On a baking show? Merlin wonders how that conversation went.

“Yes, ‘Oh.’ Look at how smug he is.”

“Well, he did get a handshake.”

“Of course his did. They probably paid them off to make sure he sticks around.”

 _And his aunt works on the crew_ , Merlin thinks. He hums a little. “Well, the technical is blind, so…”

“We’ll find out.”

“He may just be good.”

Cedric just smiles a mirthless, mean grimace. “We’ll find out.”

 

There’s little time to consider anything before they line up for the technical. “Mind your temperatures,” Prue warns, and Noels tells them to go back to their love dungeon. Merlin knows the camera catches his double take and he wonders how they don’t laugh.

“Right, for your first technical challenge,” Sandi announces, “Paul and Prue want you to make a classic devil’s food cake.”

“It’s my kind of cake.” Noel winks and grins at them. “A little goth and filled with cream.”

Merlin pulls back the gingham cloth. The ingredients are simple, and the recipe is sparse. A camera closes in and he reads aloud, “Make a ganache.”

Noel comes up as he mixes his sponge. “You already made a ganache today.”

“I did. I like chocolate.”

“And your flatmate, does he like chocolate more than hazelnut?”

“Probably. I don’t know.”

“I thought you cooked for him”

“He wishes. Usually it’s the girls he brings back to the flat.”

“So he brings them back and you cook for them?”

“Um, kind of. Usually when they get back, they’ve figured out he’s not much to talk to.”

“But they get cake out of it. I think I’d like to come home with your flatmate then.” Merlin can’t help but giggle a little. “Maybe they should cut out the middle man and just go home with you. I look good in a dress.”

“He does,” Sandi calls from Gwaine’s station. At least Merlin thinks it’s Gwaine. Percy is the biceps and Gwaine is the hair.

Merlin tears off a piece of parchment paper. “Oh, the dress isn’t necessary.”

“A-ha,” Noel says. “Cheeky.” He looks into the camera. “That’s the sound of women’s hearts breaking all across the country.”

Sandi leans their direction. “And that is the sound of…” She clears her throat. “Something else.”

“Can you say that?!” Merlin chokes.

Noel pats him on the back. “Sure!” He whispers, “Plausible deniability,” then looks back at the camera. “No idea what she’s talking about.”

A crash interrupts them. Merlin spins around. Arthur stands, dumbstruck. Chocolate batter is splashed across his front. The source is nowhere to be found. Cedric stands behind him with a bowl, as if he’s been at the microwave. “That is tough luck, mate. You want a hand picking that up?” he asks.

“No.” Arthur voice is tight and controlled. Cedric shrugs and walks back to his station. He raises his eyebrows and shrugs at Merlin on the way.

Sandi descends on Arthur. “What has happened?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur does seem stunned. “I didn’t realize I set it so close to the edge.”

“Starting over,” Sandi says. “Go, go.”

“Right.” Arthur shakes himself.

Merlin frowns and puts his baking tins into the oven. He tells the camera man, “I’m just setting my timer for twenty-five, and then I’ll keep checking it after that.”

The mixer switches on behind him. He can’t stop himself from turning around. Arthur is puffing his cheeks in a dramatic exhale. He looks so miserable, Merlin bites his lip and tries to give him a reassuring look. Arthur’s eyes flit down to Merlin’s soiled knees. Other than that, he ignores him.

 

Merlin is checking his ganache when he hears another outburst: “Damn it.”

There’s a collective pause in the tent, and everyone looks back.

“My oven was off!” Arthur is frantically pushing buttons. He’s muttering to himself and shaking his head. “I swear it was…” Merlin hears.

 

Merlin wasn’t lying when he said he likes chocolate. He’s made chocolate curls—even practised them for his Swiss roll, but didn’t end up using any. He makes his chocolate curls without fuss and starts to assemble.

Each time he looks up, he sees the bakers in front of him working furiously, but each time, he also sees Cedric looking back. He wonders why the man is so fixated and wished he could just ask.

Merlin finished assembling his cake, somehow, at the five minute warning. He takes a gulp of water and considers how lucky he is. No one else is finished yet. He peeks behind him. This time, Arthur’s station is a mess. The man has chocolate on his face and in his hair. He is spreading ganache, and his jaw is set tight. Merlin is momentarily transfixed by the jawline, in fact. He forces himself to look away. “You haven’t done the curls yet.” He says it out loud and Arthur’s eyes snap up, freezing him.

“No, _Mer_ lin, I had to restart, remember?”

Merlin glares at him. “Yes, I remember. I just… I’m finished.”

“Isn’t that nice?”

Merlin peeks back over his shoulder and sees Cedric staring at him. Merlin notices his cake is also unfinished. His eyes linger on Merlin’s bake plated and ready. His lips purse and Merlin looks away. “Do you want a hand?” Merlin asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want a hand?”

It’s Arthur’s turn to stare. “You… you’d do that?”

Merlin walks over to Arthur’s station. “What do you need?”

Arthur’s eyes look over at the chocolate. He hasn’t done the curls yet. Merlin grips the cheese slicer and starts making the curls. He ignores the cameras, which seem to swarm on them like fruit flies.

At the one minute warning, Merlin steps back. Arthur is so focused he barely grunts a “Thanks.”

“Alright bakers, that is it,” Sandi calls. “Take your devil’s food and leave it for him behind your picture.”

Merlin does. And then they wait, _again_ , for everyone to interview. This time, Vivienne gives him a long, cool look. “Merlin,” she says. “You helped Arthur.”

He looks down at his feet. “Mm hmm.”

“Why?”

He sighs. “It was a lot to go wrong for him.”

“The oven and the batter spill.”

“Odd, considering how together he had it for the signature, innit?”

Vivienne is visibly taken aback. “It is, actually.” She blinks and looks over a pair of crew members. “Can you…” She gestures, and they step near and listen to her whisper, then rush away. Merlin picks at the scrape on his palm. “How do you feel about your cake?” Vivienne asks.

“It’s a little up my alley really.”

“I heard you say you make chocolate cake for your flatmate’s girlfriends.”

Merlin lifts his hands. “Why does everyone keep asking about Will? If you knew how much he’s going to love this, you’d stop. He’s going to be using it to pull for the next ten years.”

“And you’re going to use the whole nice-guy-who-helps-his-rival angle.”

“Rival?”

Vivienne smiles. “Never mind that, dear. Good luck!”

“Thanks…”

 

They sit close together on stools and wait to be humiliated or elated. Merlin is wedged between Gwen and Gwaine, who is singing “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” in a quiet voice. He ruffles Merlin’s hair. “Saw what you did to help the princess, mate. Good on you.” Merlin just looks at him.

Percy proffers a beefy hand. “I agree, Merlin.” Merlin shakes it and feels his face heat.

The tasting goes fast, but the discussion is slow. It’s obvious that some of the cakes aren’t done well. A few have sunk due to under-baking. A few tried to assemble before they cooled and the ganache is sloppy. Yet others aren’t finished at all. Merlin is shocked to see Gwen’s is missing the chocolate curls, has sunk at a slant, and is a general mess. She squeezes his hand as Paul calls it a disappointment.

Merlin can’t ask for a better response to his cake. It’s neat and moist, and Prue goes for a second bite. But his isn’t alone and Paul says, “There’s some great cakes here. This is going to be tough.”

Isolde comes last. She wasn’t finished, and the sponge is raw. Gwaine is next, and he chuckles and shrugs. Mithian’s messy stack is next and then Gwen, who seems relieved to be that high. Lance is just above Gwen, and then Percy and Nimueh. Freya is fifth and Alice fourth. Paul stops and gives them each a penetrating look. “Alright next is this one.” Cedric raises his hand. Merlin’s heart pounds. “Second place and first were very close. They’re both very near perfect. Second is this one.” He points to Merlin’s. Gwen elbows him, grinning, and he raises his hand. “Merlin. The wizard. Good job. And first, then, is this one.” Arthur looks at Merlin, mouth gaping. He raises his hand. “Arthur, wow, what can I say?”

“It is really a perfect devil’s food cake,” Prue says. “Almost exactly like mine.”

 

The bus ride to the hotel is raucous.  Gwaine has removed his sweaty, chocolate-streaked shirt. “Good thing I brought two,” he crows, tossing it at Merlin and winking. He starts dancing around in his seat to music blaring from Alice’s phone. “Ayy! We’ve made it!” He hooks an arm around Percy and smackers a big kiss on his cheek. “First drink’s on me back at the hotel!” he calls. He looks over at Arthur. “Should be on the princess, though.”

Arthur blushes. “’Princess?”

“I call it as I see it,” Gwaine says. He winks at Merlin. “And this one is the magician.”

Merlin laughs. “I’ve been called worse.”

“In return, Magician, I’ll let you call me whatever you like.” Merlin laughs. They pour out of the bus and file into the hotel. Merlin is at the back of the line and he watches the merriment with a quiet happiness that is almost fear. Anything could happen during the showstopper, and Merlin knows it would be just terrible to go out at this point. And he doesn’t want to lose a friend, either. A hand closes on his shoulder and pulls him back before he crosses the threshold.

“Hey, wait.” Arthur’s voice is close in his ear.

“What?”

“I want to… thank you.” Arthur’s hand squeezes before he lets go. “For earlier. I didn’t really get a chance.”

“Oh.”

“I still don’t know how that happened. And then you… saved me, really.”

“You would’ve been fine; you got a handshake. So it really wasn’t a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me.” Arthur’s eyes are deep blue in the dusky light. “My sister says I don’t say thank you enough and I’m trying to be better.”

Merlin laughs.

“What?”

“You’re thanking me because of your sister.” He laughs again. “I’ll see you later.” He turns around to go in the hotel, and then trips on the stoop. He face plants into the doorway—fortunately it is open.

“Huh.” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. He steps over Merlin. “Yeah. Later.”

A much-needed pint is waiting for him in the hotel bar. Merlin takes a deep sip and tucks into a bowl of thick stew. He’s had so much cake, the protein is unbelievably satisfying. Percy perches on the stool next to him. “Don’t let him get you pissed,” he says, pointing toward Gwaine.

“Do you two know each other?”

“It feels like it.”

Merlin smiles and looks over at Gwen. “I know what you mean.” She’s curled into a booth with Lance, who is giving her a soulful look that makes Merlin feel warm inside. He wants to give her a wink, but she doesn’t look over at him.

“Princess!” Gwaine shouts. Merlin tries to not watch Arthur enter, but it is nearly impossible. He sits on the other side of Percy and Gwaine and downs his point in one as the group cheers. “Star drinker, this one.” Gwaine orders him another. Merlin orders himself a glass of red, relishing the way the Cabernet complements the tomato and beef in the stew.

Nimueh starts up an ancient jukebox, so Gwaine pulls Percy off his stool for an impromptu dance party as “Twist and Shout” fills the room. Merlin finds himself leaning against Alice, flipping through her phone gallery. Her grandchildren are adorable, and he can just imagine the way the Bake Off crew will cover them.

It’s getting late when Merlin goes to cover his tab.

“What?” The barmaid looks confused.

“I’m ready to pay,” Merlin says.

“It’s already taken care of.”

“Huh?”

“Your tab was already paid. You’re Merlin, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s paid.”

“But… By whom?” She just shrugs.

A half hour later, Merlin is standing in the laundry room, exhausted and partially nude, questioning all his life choices. He didn’t bring double clothes because he spent enough money on the first set, not to mention the price of supplies leading up to the weekend. He’s stripped to the ancient trackie bottoms he brought to sleep in, bare-chested and tired. He’s leaning against the washing machine and scrolling through Tumblr when the door opens behind him. “Oh god,” he says. He looks down at his bare chest, then up into Arthur’s startled eyes.

Arthur is silent. His mouth opens and closes, then opens and closes, and then opens again. His eyes track down Merlin’s worn trousers, then catch at his hips. Merlin tugs them up, aware suddenly that they’re a bit loose and hanging low. And that he’s bare underneath. He wishes he wasn’t so thin—Gwaine’s buff physique is seared in his mind—maybe then Arthur wouldn’t look so… What is that look? “Sorry,” he says.

Arthur coughs. “I just…” He steps to another washing machine and piles in his chocolate-covered clothes.

“You didn’t bring doubles?”

“Seemed like a waste of money.”

“But I thought…”

“My father is wealthy, not me.”

“Oh.” Arthur is also in trackie bottoms, but his are newer and paired with a grey t-shirt. It looks well-worn and washed, and Merlin inexplicably wants to bury his face in it. He shakes himself. His washer buzzes and he exhales. He switches his clothes to the dryer as Arthur pours detergent and flips his on.

“Been… baking… long?” Arthur grimaces.

Merlin snorts. “Yeah. You?”

Arthur sighs. “Yes, since I was a kid.”

“Been watching Bake Off long?”

“Of course,” Arthur says.

“Favourite baker?”

“Oh god, I don’t know. Selasi? Maybe John. I liked Ruby.”

“Tandoh?”

“Yes, but I like both. Who’s yours?”

“Andrew.”

“Oh, I do like Andrew.” Arthur leans on the washing machine. “He is brilliant.”

“And adorable,” Merlin says.

“Yeah. That clockwork pie…” He looks a bit wistful and Merlin is momentarily confused. Is Arthur saying _Andrew_ is adorable or Andrew’s _pie_? He tells himself it doesn’t matter.

Merlin hoists himself up onto the dryer and looks at Arthur. “You did well today.”

“Because you helped me.”

Merlin frowns. “I think… someone tried to sabotage you.”

“Huh?”

“I think someone tried to make you fail.”

Arthur just stares at him for a moment. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Who?”

“Uh, I don’t want to accuse anyone. I mean, I could be wrong, and, well…”

“Seriously?”

“I think your godmother is looking into the whole thing.”

“Oh.” Arthur frowns. “So that’s why you helped me. Because you saw someone try to sabotage me.”

Merlin frowns too. “As opposed to…”

“Never mind.” Arthur looks at his washing machine. “Thirty-five minutes. Right. See you tomorrow, Merlin.” He turns and walks away.

 

The showstopper challenge is a hidden design cake. Morning is there too soon, and Merlin finds himself blinking away a headache and sipping a strong cuppa. They start off inside the manor, cozy in a parlor. It’s raining outside, and the runners bring them umbrellas before they march down to the tent.

They’re baking before Merlin can even start panicking, and he’s mixing ingredients before the paracetamol even kicks in. Merlin tries to stay focused and keep his head down, but it is hard. He’s worried about one of his new friends messing up. Gwen seems to have hit a reset button and she’s glowing. Lance keeps peeking over his shoulder at her, and she keeps peeking at Merlin and giggling. “You better focus, you hussy!” he whispers, which only makes her giggle more.

Merlin’s making jam then the judges arrive. “Merlin the Magician,” Paul says. “Tell us about your hidden design.”

“Well, it’s based on legend,” Merlin explains. “Because my mum named me Merlin and she’s a history professor who studies the Arthurian period and the legends around it.”

“She must be delighted by this group of bakers, then,” says Prue.

Merlin smiles. “It is a little odd.”

Noel leans forward. “We do call the casting director the Great Dragon.”

Paul elbows him. “ _Noel_ calls Mr. Kilgarrah the Great Dragon. Everyone else just calls him Bill.”

“He prefers Great Dragon. Makes it less weird when he breathes fire and flies about.”

“Then what’s your excuse?” asks Sandi.

“I’m a vampire.”

“Who breathes fire,” adds Sandi.

“Merlin’s cake,” Paul redirects them.

“It actually is a dragon.” Everyone laughs.

“If it is anything like your previous bakes, it will be divine,” says Prue. “I look forward to it.”

“You know we have another baker making a dragon cake.” Paul gives that cool look that Merlin knows is meant to intimidate. Instead he’s confused.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Another member of the Arthurian name club, too.”

Merlin feels a sinking, heavy sensation in his chest. “Oh god.” He turns around. He’s aware the cameras are probably getting this, but he can’t help it. Sure enough, there it is: on Arthur’s workstation is parchment paper sketched with a cartoon dragon. Arthur raises an eyebrow at him and Merlin spins around. “That’s fine,” he says. “It’ll be fine.”

“We better let you work,” says Noel. He rubs Merlin’s shoulders a bit and gives him a little pat before sauntering away, neon colour-block shirt swishing on his way.

 

The next time Merlin looks up, Cedric is standing by his oven. “What?” Merlin asks.

“Ouch.” Cedric pouts and runs his hand over the butcher block. “I see you and Prince Arthur are both baking dragon cakes,” he whispers.

“ _Prince_ Arthur? What is this, grammar school?”

“I can’t believe you’d side with him over your own kind.”

“Side? You mean disapprove of you cheating?”

Cedric scratches at his ear. “You can be an apologist all you want, but he’ll pay in the end.”

“Pay for his father’s politics?”

“Apple, tree.”

“You don’t know that.”

Cedric shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“What is wrong with you? It’s a baking show.”

Cedric shakes his head, disgusted. “What’s wrong with you? You just fancy him, don’t you?” He makes a sour face. “You bloody qu—”

“The _fuck_ did you just say?” Percy looms over Cedric. His usually-placid, kind face is magenta. Merlin is thankful it isn’t directed at him. Gwen turns around, and Gwaine appears at Percy’s side.

“What’s happening?” asks Gwaine.

“Yes, what is happening?” asks Percy.

“It’s fine,” Merlin says. “I’ve got this.” He’s been pushed around before, and he’s done with that. “What did you want to call me?” he asks Cedric. He’s hyper aware of the cameras closing in. The whole thing has happened in a flash.

Cedric retreats. “Nothing,” he says. “Just wishing you good luck.”

“Thanks.” Merlin nods. “And same to you. But now I need to work.” He watches everyone return to their stations.

“Hey.” He shivers. Arthur’s breath is warm on his ear and it’s an instinctual reaction. Arthur’s hand is on his back, and it decenters him. No, rather, it centers him. Every other sensation melts away and the hand on his back becomes everything.

“Hngh?” He isn’t sure what sound he has made, but Arthur ignores it.

“What was that about?”

“Uh… what?”

“Cedric?”

“Oh. Well, he’s kind of a pillock.”

Arthur’s laugh is a throaty rumble. “Well, obviously.”

Merlin wants to look over at Cedric, but his eyes get caught on Arthur’s. He’s standing nearer than is strictly appropriate. His hand rubs a little and Merlin makes another noise.

“That’s the spot, huh?”

Merlin laughs more loudly than is strictly called for, given the prompt. “Yes.”

“You’ll need to hire a massage after this weekend. Or find someone to oblige…”

Merlin nods his head.

“Well good luck on the dragon,” Arthur murmurs. He pulls his hand away and Merlin forces himself to not lean in and chase it.

 

The clock ticks. Over the next two hours, Merlin returns Arthur’s jam to the fridge no fewer than seven times. It has become a sort of game, and he is massively distracted.

When Sandi yells there are ten minutes remaining, Merlin gasps. Gwen looks back at him and grins. She’s clearly caught her stride and is cruising to the finish. Merlin pieces together his dragon, pipes in buttercream and jam, and covers it. He finishes the outside in an ombre, and is done just in time.

The post-bake interview is quiet. “It was stressful,” he says.

Vivienne squints at him. “Because you knew there was another dragon cake?”

“No. That’s fine.”

“You’re confident you’re better than Arthur?”

“What? No. I think Arthur is… great.” He looks over and finds Arthur has already arrived for his interview. He’s looking at him in a satisfied way that is more than a little annoying.

“So you aren’t worried at all?”

“No, I think my cake is messy.”

“Is it? It looked good to me.”

“On the outside.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

 

“Gwen, please bring up your hidden design cake.” It has a white chocolate collar with a pink floral design. When they cut it, it shows a perfect Tudor rose and everyone claps.

There’s a horse and stars and a Union Jack. Gwaine’s pirate surprise hides a Jolly Roger.

“Merlin, let’s see your showstopper,” Sandi calls. He sets it down and they nod.

“Good piping,” says Prue.

“But what’s inside?” Paul cuts a great slice down the middle. Merlin cringes. “Not as tidy as I’d like, but you can at least see that it’s a dragon.” He takes a bite, as does Prue.

“That is delicious.” Prue makes a rapturous face. “Just incredible flavour.”

“It is,” Paul agrees. “But it’s also a mess.”

“Right. Thanks.” Merlin makes a face as he returns to his spot.

“Arthur.”

He carries his pedestal to the front. Arthur has also done a chocolate collar, and his cake is exquisite. When Paul cuts it and shows the dragon, everyone gasps including Merlin. It is truly incredible. “But how does it taste?” They each take a bite. Merlin’s heart pounds like he’s up there again.

“Um,” Prue starts.

“It’s boring.”

“Really?” Arthur takes a step forward.

“And it looks _incredible_. Style over substance. You need to work on that flavour.”

“Not enough buttercream and jam,” Prue explains. “And the sweet just cloys without any real payoff. I’d love to see some almond or vanilla, or even lemon in that.”

“Right.” Arthur nods. “Thank you.” They give him a sad smile and he returns to his station.

“Okay, Cedric. Please bring forward your cake.”

It’s only half piped. “What happened?” Asks Paul.

“Lost track of time.”

Paul raises his eyebrows and shares a look with Prue. He slices it open to reveal a maple leaf. “This is maple?”

“And bacon.”

“Interesting.” They taste it. Paul makes another face. “That bacon is overpowering.”

“It really is,” Prue agrees. “And that’s too bad.”

The next fifteen minutes exist outside of normal time. Merlin shakes as he says he hopes it’s not him. He knows it was a mess but he did well the day before.

“But they loved your flavours,” Vivienne points out.”

Merlin can’t find any words. He’s still riled up about Cedric. “I guess.”

“By the way.” Vivienne’s voice goes soft. “Thank you.”

“What?”

“We’ve noticed some interesting things on the dailies, yesterday and this morning.”

“Oh.”

“We’re hoping to get through today before it’s addressed.”

“I see.”

“And I want to thank you for pointing it out. And if there’s anything else the producers need to know…”

“I think it’s handled.”

Vivienne nods. “Good luck.”

 

They’re back on the stools as they wait for the final judgement. Gwen squeezes Merlin’s hand again.

“Bakers, you have all done a wonderful job,” Sandi begins. “And this week I get the wonderful job of announcing this year’s first Star Baker.” She grins. “This baker is a master of flavours. They are also a master of spirals and bake a devil of a chocolate cake. They make a surprise cake so good it can breathe fire.” Merlin jumps. Arthur’s already looking at him when his eyes find him. Gwen squeezes so hard his hand hurts. “You might say… he’s a magician in the kitchen. Merlin, you are our first Star Baker!”

“No way,” he gasps. Before he looks away he sees Arthur grin. Everyone applauds.

“Which means I have the terrible job of sending someone home.” Noel sighs. “The first baker to leave us is…” he pauses. “Cedric.”

“Cedric, dear, come give us a hug.” Sandi grabs him and pulls him in.

Merlin is in a daze. Paul’s handshake pulls him out of his reverie. “I’d like to see better design,” he tell him. “But that flavour, Merlin. It was really delicious.”

Prue nods beside him. “Absolutely wonderful.”

 

The ride back to the hotel is quiet. Everyone is clearly exhausted. Cedric is at the front, and he refuses to look at anyone. Their bags are waiting at the front desk. Merlin grabs his duffel and hugs Gwen, who is trading info with Lance. “Cheers, see you next week,” he calls out. A chorus answers him, along with a few rough claps on the back.

He’s loading his bag into a taxi when Arthur finds him. “Hey.”

“Arthur. Hi.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I really thought it would be you.”

“No, my flavour was off.”

“My presentation was off.”

Arthur shrugs. “Flavour is more important.” He reaches out his hand, and Merlin takes it. “Well done.”

“Thanks. Well done you.”

“Thanks. I’ll beat you next week.”

Merlin grins. “You wish.” He realizes he’s still holding on. Arthur squeezes his hand before he lets it go.

“See you next week, Merlin,” he says.

Merlin gets in the car. His hand doesn’t stop tingling until he’s on the train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a LOT of other things going on, so I'm going to try to keep this updated, but please give me some grace.  
> This chapter is also like three times my usual length, and it was a challenge to write and attempt to keep IC. And present tense, which is... weird. I'm not sure I like that. Do you like it? 
> 
> That said, your comments/kudos/etc. are the fuel that sustains me. I would love for you to say hi. *waves* <3


	2. Biscuit Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU so much for the positive feedback so far! It helped me get this out faster than I actually thought I would.
> 
> I tried really hard to make a fake Twitter page with all the people watching the week one episode. I just don't think it turned out well enough to really share. Basically it was people commenting on Merlin helping Arthur and how absurdly attractive everyone is.  
> If anyone feels compelled to create extra stuff like that for this story, please do, and I will add it in. I imagine the hardcore shippers have probably already started to notice a couple potential pairings, and it's probably in full swing by the end of week two.

“I do think you have it with this one.” Gaius bites off another crunchy piece. “Of course the last ones were… unfortunate, Merlin.”

“But they looked nice. I’m supposed to practice my presentation, I told you.”

“You were Star Baker, though, because of your flavours. Not this Archer chap.”

“Arthur. I know. But you know I’m rubbish at biscuits.” Merlin groans. “Why can’t it be bread week or pastry week?”

“Merlin, you are the best baker I’ve ever known, and that includes your mum. Don’t tell her I said that. But you are, and you’re going to do fine.” Gaius straightens a shelf of _Dungeon Master Guides_ before looking Merlin in the eye. “Now don’t you need to get to the shop before closing?”

Gaius is right. Merlin stopped by the book and game shop he’s been working at to drop off the latest batch. They do game nights on Thursdays and Merlin sometimes provides snacks. But he also needs to buy clothes for this weekend.

He doesn’t really _need_ to buy clothes. He has old jeans he can wear. It should be warm, so he doesn’t even need to worry about layers. But he’s buying clothes at the boutique up the street anyway.

He finds a blue shirt that matches his eye colour, which he decides will look good on television. It’s lightweight, so it will be comfortable in the tent.

“These will go perfect.” The shopgirl holds up grey trousers. Merlin slides them on in the fitting room and steps out to look in the mirror. “Big date?” she asks.

“Uh, not exactly.”

“Well, treat yourself, I always say. That’s a good fit, that.” She winks.

“Thanks.” Back in his old threads, he stands at the rack. He can buy two sets. He got paid, so he has the cash. He looks at each item.

He buys a single set.

It’s the more responsible decision, he tells himself.

There’s a TV crew at game night to get B-roll for his bio clips. Merlin doesn’t have an adorable family (other than his mum, but she’s back in Ealdor) or hot boyfriend, so they’re desperate. The crew spent five minutes talking to Will before they seemed to rule out any input from him. Instead, they interviewed Gaius, who _is_ technically family in addition to being his boss. Merlin doesn’t know what he told them, but it will be edited with shots of him DMing. The players are camera shy, but they’re happy to eat the biscuits, as well as the tarts and traybakes from the past couple of days.

The crew eats their share as well, and Merlin goes home happy. He tucks the new clothes straight into his duffel. He peeks into the bag, and then adds pyjama bottoms. He stares at them for a bit before setting it aside and going to sleep.

He dreams of drowning in flour. It can’t be a good sign.

 

Merlin’s heart starts pounding at the train station. A cab is waiting to drive him to the hotel. “Have there been many others yet?” he asks as they pull into the car park.

“Other what?”

“Uh, bakers.”

“Bakers?”

“Never mind. Sorry. Cheers.” He shuts the car door and looks at the hotel. It’s an idyllic inn, and Merlin takes a few deep breaths. It’s week two. He’s here, he’s made it through, and it’s Biscuit Week.

After check-in, Merlin lingers in the lobby. A young family checks in, and their baby is a pudgy little dumpling who clings to her mother’s leg and stares at him. Merlin is completely smitten until he realizes she’s eyeing him strangely because he’s a gown man awkwardly standing in a hotel lobby, alone and slightly sweaty. He swings his duffel over his shoulder and goes to find his room. He decides to be responsible and go to bed early.

All sleep attempts are futile; he stares at the ceiling until half past two before finally finding oblivion.

 

The shuttle bus picks them up early, and this first ride is so different than the week before. Last time, Merlin was overwhelmed and barely looked around. This time he’s exhausted but happy to greet the other bakers. He assesses them: Alice looks the most peaceful, and Freya is a bet of a wreck. Gwen pulls him into a hug and slides in next to him. Gwaine greets everyone with high-fives like an athlete. Merlin realizes this behaviour is probably because he is, in fact, an athlete.

Arthur slips among them quietly. His eyes meet Merlin’s, flit away, and then return, all before Merlin has a chance to even say hello. He sees Arthur’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Merlin realizes his memory has been inadequate. The man’s jawline is even more lethal than he recalled—and he thought he’d been exaggerating it because of the show’s overall effect. _No,_ Merlin thinks, _he really does look like that._

 

The tent still takes his breath away. “Try not to freeze up looking at it this time.” Arthur’s voice is just behind him as they approach.

“Try not to be a prat this time,” Merlin responds.

Arthur huffs. “How’s your hand?”

“Like new.”

Arthur nods and continues walking, and Merlin briefly wonders what he would have said, if anything, if it hadn’t been healed.

This week, he’s across the aisle from Gwen. Arthur is in front of her, and Freya completes the square. Everyone else is behind them. More interviews start the day. This time, it isn’t Vivienne, and a quiet young man asks Merlin how he feels coming into the week.

“I hope I didn’t peak too early.”

“Of course not.”

“Everyone knows about the curse of the Star Baker.”

“So you’re feeling nervous?”

“Biscuits are not really my best… skill.”

“How so?”

“It’s the different types of icing. It can just all go horribly, horribly wrong.”

“Hopefully not.” The man looks at him with a soft, sweet smile and Merlin returns it, letting himself cast a quick glance up and down. “I’m Edric, by the way. I was, um, that is, congratulations on getting Star Baker. I got a bit of your dragon cake and it was really good.”

Merlin grins. “Thanks. I’m Merlin.”

“I know.”

Merlin laughs. “Oh yeah, I guess so.” He rubs his hands at his trouser legs. He looks to his right. Gwen is waiting to be interviewed next and she has a sly smile as she watches them. “I should probably…” Merlin points toward the tent.

“Of course. Yeah. Thanks, Merlin.”

“Edric.” Merlin nods. He ignores Gwen’s look and goes back in. He feels warm and bolstered for the signature bake. His cheeks are still flushed when Gwen returns.

“So…” Her voice has a lilt to it that Merlin already knows means he’s about to be teased without mercy. “Edric,” she says, over-enunciating the consonants. “He is quite cute, wouldn’t you say, Merlin?”

Merlin runs his hand over the butcher block as if he needs to clean it. He lets out a little grunt.

“Fit,” Gwen continues. “Nice… hair.”

“Who?” Freya has turned around. She is quiet and seems a bit of a free spirit, albeit a melancholy one.

“Edric,” Gwen repeats. “Camera three.” She winks.

Merlin frowns at her. “I didn’t even—”

“Oh, he is cute. Good taste, Merlin!” Freya tucks her hair behind her ear. “He interviewed Arthur, too.”

“What?” Arthur turns at the mention of his name. He’s been organizing tools and straightening his workstation.

“Merlin _likes_ one of the—”

“I didn’t say I _like_ him! I don’t even know him!” He tries not to stare at Arthur’s jawline. His t-shirt is a V-neck and Merlin can see he’s wearing a ring on a gold chain. And he has chest hair. What are they talking about again?

Gwen giggles. “Oh Merlin. You really can’t hide anything. You’re blushing.”

“I am not!” He can feel his face heat even more.

Arthur makes a face at them, but a runner tells them to exit the tent before the conversation can continue. They line up and walk in, tie on their aprons, and wait. Signature Challenge time. Merlin can do this. He watches Arthur put his hands on the countertop, stuff them in his pockets, put them back on the counter, smooth over his apron, scratch his elbow, and then clasp together behind his back.

Noel and Sandi lead in Paul and Prue. “Welcome back, bakers, on this warm weekend. It is Biscuit Week,” Sandi says.

“And doesn’t that just take the biscuit?”

“No, Noel, it doesn’t.”

“Oh.” He shrugs.

Merlin chuckles. He’s with Noel on this one. He sees Arthur rub his hands on his thighs. _He’s nervous_ , Merlin realizes.

Sandy continues. “First up is your Signature Challenge.”

“Paul and Prue want you each to make twenty-four biscuits using two flavours with two different techniques. A dozen of each.”

“And each dozen should be identical,” Sandi adds.

“I thought they were supposed to be different.”

“Not to each other.”

“To the other.”

“Identically different.”

“From each other.” Noel nods. “Does that take the biscuit?”

“No.”

“Right. Well, on your mark.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

Merlin is doing one dozen cardamom biscuits and one dozen jammie dodgers. He’ll need to make two doughs, a thick caramel-type filling, and a raspberry jam. This time, it doesn’t look like Arthur is making anything with the same flavours. He has chocolate and lemons, while Merlin has berries and spice. When Paul, Prue, and Sandy stop at Arthur’s station, Merlin forces himself to not watch. He glances up and sees a camera on him; people are going to think he’s eavesdropping. Or spying. Merlin wonders if they’ll like him. He realizes if he doesn’t focus, he won’t be on long enough to find out. He pulses flour and butter together in a food processor.

He’s cutting the jammie dodger tops when they reach him. “Jammie dodgers,” he explains.

“With raspberry?” asks Prue.

“Yes.” Merlin gestures.

“And what is your other biscuit?” Paul asks.

“It’s cardamom with brown sugar and a caramel filling.”

Sandi perks up. “I love a good cardamom biscuit. You’re making them just for me, aren’t you Merlin?”

“Of course.” Merlin grins.

“So you’re making forty-eight biscuits then,” Paul points out. “What kind of flour are you using for the cardamom?”

“Self-rising.” Paul stares at him. “It’s worked in the practice.”

“Don’t let him scare you.” Sandi waves her hands at Paul.

“I trust your flavours,” Prue says, “but you’ve had trouble with presentation. How will this be different?”

“As long as I have a uniform depth of my dough and I get a good texture on the fillings, it should be straightforward.”

Sandi nods. “Which means you need to focus. Let him focus!”

Paul keeps his icy gaze on Merlin and then nods. “Good luck.”

Merlin wonders if he shouldn’t use the self-rising flour. He knows Paul likes a nice crunch to his biscuits. Will they be too light? _Too late to change now_ , he thinks. He puts his cutouts on the tray. “Just a short bake,” he tells the camerawoman as he slides them in the oven. He looks up and finds Arthur’s eyes on his. Arthur doesn’t acknowledge him, he just looks away. Merlin shakes himself. _Focus_ , he thinks. What does he do next? He looks at his notes. _Don’t look_. He looks up. Arthur is rolling dough. _Stop looking. Caramel_. He opens a drawer. _Butter_. He sets a pan on the cooktop and melts butter, then adds sugar, cream, and golden syrup. He stirs it as it melts. He keeps stirring as it begins to boil. And then it starts to crystallize. “No, no, no!” A camera closes in on it. “Starting over.” He pulls out a new pan and repeats the process. “Too hot.”

Gwen looks over at him. “Is something burning?”

Merlin sniffs. It does smell like… “Oh god. No. No!” He flings open his oven and the aroma of singed shortbread buffets him. It is dark brown; shortbread should _never_ be dark brown.

“Do you have more?” Gwen asks.

“No.”

“Have to start over. There’s time. Quick, quick!” She nods rapidly. Paul walks by, arms crossed over chest.

Merlin looks wildly across the room, and then back at his workstation. “Oh god.” The second batch of caramel is completely solid in the pan. “How?” He puts his hands on his face.

Noel seems to materialize beside him. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

“No.”

“I thought not. Time to start again?”

“Right. Right.” Merlin takes a deep breath.

Noel leans in. “Hurry,” he whispers. Merlin runs. He jogs to the back to grab new ingredients. He rushes back and starts fresh. He doesn’t have time to chill his dough. He doesn’t have time to think. He doesn’t even have time to panic. Much.

As time is called, Gwen is helping him with the presentation. She keeps moving, even when they tell them to stop, and Merlin’s eyes fill, but don’t spill over. “That you,” he whispers, and she squeezes his hand. They walk outside into the sun.

“It’s fine,” she tells him. “They look fine, Merlin.”

“I’m finished.”

“You have the technical and the showstopper. Anything can happen.”

Merlin closes his eyes and tilts his face up. It’s warm. When he opens them, a camera has neared. He knows how this will go: what a disaster, people will think.

Vivienne is kind. “Take your time.” Her smile is grim, but gentle.

“I wish it was bread or pastry. Anything other than biscuits.”

“Even the dreaded Bread Week?”

“I’d _much_ rather it be Bread Week.”

“Do you think they’ll like the taste?”

“I don’t think anything about that was redeemable.”

Merlin walks slowly to his workstation and finds it already clean. A cup of tea waits for him. He looks around, but no one pays him any attention. “Thank you,” he tells the tea fairy. It is hot and it is perfect. He sighs. He looks at the tray. He sighs again.

 

“Merlin.” Paul looks at the biscuits. “Okay, where to start.”

Prue looks like she’s trying to find something nice to say. “Timing issues?”

“I had to restart the shortbread.”

“And the caramel filling?” she asks.

“I restarted that, too.”

“A few times,” Noel points out. He is clearly holding in a laugh, not sure Merlin is ready for it.

Merlin just nods.

“They don’t look appetizing,” Paul observes. “But it does come down to taste. That’s saved you before.” He cuts a jammie dodger in half. “No crunch.” Merlin nods. “Because they’re massively under-baked. He holds it up. “In fact, that bottom half is raw. And the dough has gone out of shape; was it not refrigerated?” Merlin shakes his head. “And still under-baked.”

“But this jam has a lovely flavour,” says Prue.

“Too bad it isn’t jam week.” Paul stares at it. He places a cardamom biscuit on the plate and cuts it. “Better bake on this biscuit, but that caramel sauce.” He shakes his head.

Prue takes a bite. “It’s grainy and not thick enough. Really a disappointment.”

They move on to Gwen. Her citrus shortbread has a perfect crumble and her gingersnaps are gorgeous with the right amount of heat. She sighs in relief and Merlin tries to smile.

They migrate to the front. Arthur has made a lemon and lavender square biscuit. Paul takes a bite and makes a face. “The lavender—that amount just isn’t right. The balance isn’t there.”

“And the lemon isn’t coming through,” Prue adds. “So it’s like soap.”

“For washing your mouth out,” says Noel. “I wish I’d had biscuits and not Lifebuoy for that.”

“I’m not surprised you’ve had that.” Paul gives Noel a sideways look.

“I’m only joking,” Noel says. “My mum has the vocabulary of a sailor. Because she is a sailor.” He looks into the camera. “She’s a pirate.”

Arthur’s other biscuit is campfire themed. “It’s graham, marshmallow, and chocolate.”

Paul cuts it with a noisy crunch. “That is rock hard.”

Arthur rubs at his forehead. He peeks back at Merlin as they walk away. Merlin sends him a sympathetic half-smile. They both look away.

 

They take a break in the manor, and Gwaine pulls Merlin into a one-arm hug. “Chin up, lad. This is only the beginning!”

Percy nods. “You’ll come about for the technical.”

“Thanks. We’ll see.” Gwen wraps him in another hug, and even Lance gives him a little pat.

Alice says, “Both of you boys just need a good lunch and a nice cuppa, and all of this will be reset.” It takes Merlin a moment to realize she’s talking to Arthur, too.

“Thanks,” is Arthur’s surly reply.

“At least you did better than I did.”

Arthur scoffs. “Merlin, everyone who has ever made biscuits did better than that. What happened?”

“Thanks.”

“You want me to lie?”

“No.”

“Okay, so what happened?”

“I was distracted.”

“By what?”

_You_ , Merlin thinks. “Fear.”

“Fear is the mind-killer.”

_He just quoted_ Dune _,_ Merlin thinks. He sits down. Thankfully, there’s a chair behind him. “What’s your excuse?”

“I was distracted.”

“By what?”

Arthur just shrugs. “The absolute mess you were making,” he drawls.

 

“Paul and Prue want you to make twelve kringla,” Sandi announces.

“It’s a Norwegian biscuit.”

“Mm hmm and Swedish.”

“It’s a Swedish biscuit.”

“You have one hour.”

“On your marks.”

“Get set!”

“Bake!”

“Bake!”

Beneath the gingham cloth, Merlin finds a bottle labeled buttermilk, shortening, and other ingredients. He scans the recipe. It seems fairly simple, if pared down. He reads “form into a pretzel shape” with apprehension. There’s also no bake time or temperature given. “Here we go,” he mutters.

The dough is unbearably sticky. Merlin refrigerates it for as long as he dares, but it is a mess. He needs to form little ropes, and it sticks to his hands like paste. He coats himself with flour, and that helps, but he’s afraid of compromising the texture. A camera captures his every move. Sandi and Noel keep clear, and he’s afraid they’re avoiding him. It’s warm outside and hot in the tent. He’s sweating. His face feels sticky where flour has stuck to the perspiration. He can’t remember what a pretzel looks like. _I’m going home_ , he thinks. _I don’t want to go home_. He looks over and sees Gwen has folded her dough into a piping bag rather than follow the instructions for shaping. He knows how this goes: the camera will record the risky move and everyone will be anxious to see if it pays off. He can picture Paul in the tent telling Prue, “They’ll be tempted to pipe it, but it’ll ruin the texture.” Or he’ll say nothing like that and Merlin is a fool for not trying it himself.

Arthur is standing still with his hands raised in front of him. He’s shaking his head. Freya looks over and giggles. “Oh my,” she says. She looks back at Merlin and her eyes grow approximately three times their normal size. “Wow.”

Arthur turns and looks at Merlin. He is comically messed: flour streaks his hair. A powdery handprint is smeared on his face. His hands are an indistinguishable mess of sticky, wet dough. He is pale.

“Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration,” Merlin quotes. His heart pounds.

Arthur’s brow furrows in confusion. Then he lifts his chin in a slow nod. “Right.” He turns and goes back to his mess. Merlin does too.

Gwen’s oven closes and she taps her timer as she comes over to Merlin. “What was that?”

“What? The mess?”

“No, about fear?”

“Oh, it’s just a line from a book. _Dune_.”

She nods. “It’s on my to-be-read list.”

“Bakers, you have fifteen minutes!” Noel shouts from the rear of the tent.

Merlin groans. “Why biscuits?”

Gwen smooths his hair back by his ear and smiles. “You can do this.”

Merlin goes back to his mess. He manages to get something in and out of the oven, but he doesn’t think it’s kringla. He has it plated by the end of the countdown.

The bakers leave the tent and stand in a little group. Everyone looks traumatized except Gwen and Nimueh. Even Gwaine shows signs of wear. “Wow,” he says. “I am never making kringla again.” He looks at Percy. “You can’t make me.”

Percy shakes his head. “I don’t even want to _see_ kringla again.”

Lance frowns. “This challenge seemed a little tough for week two.”

“They’re probably trying to weed us out,” Freya whispers.

Isolde raises an eyebrow. “Only one person leaves a week, so that is not the case.”

“It was challenging, though,” Gwen says.

Lance looks at her. “Yours were perfect.”

“Oh, well, they just… They haven’t tasted them yet.” She looks back at Lance and everyone watches for a second, and then pointedly breaks apart to give them space.

Edric lingers by the tent entrance. He gives Merlin a half smile. “I think Vivienne wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, I, uh, saw how the morning went…”

“Disastrous. Like I predicted.”

“It didn’t look _that_ bad. I tried the caramel one. The biscuit was good.”

“You’re brave.” Merlin smiles. “And kind.”

Edric returns the smile. “You’re from London, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Me too.” He takes a step toward Merlin. “I, was, uh—” He watches Arthur walk by and steps back again. He clears his throat. “I’ll talk to you later, Merlin.”

“Okay.” Merlin waves and goes to find Vivienne. He feels a little lighter. He is definitely coming in last, he is definitely going home, but at least he may get a date out of it. Arthur is being interviewed when he finally locates Vivienne. Merlin bites his lip. Arthur is still a mess.

It's painfully adorable. Literally. Merlin looks at Arthur and his chest hurts a little. He wonders if he is developing an ulcer due to nerves. He looks away and it subsides a little. No, it’s definitely Arthur-related. He figures he may as well listen in.

“That is the stickiest I’ve ever been in my life,” Arthur is saying.

“Ever?” Vivienne asks.

“I cannot remember ever being that sticky. I can think of no circumstances in which anyone should ever be that sticky.”

Merlin immediately thinks of a few and he apparently makes some sort of sound, which draws Arthur’s attention. Something in Merlin’s face must give away his thoughts because Arthur turns a rather bold shade of crimson. _Great_ , Merlin thinks. _Now he thinks I’m a pervert_. He looks away and scratches his head.

“Arthur?”

“Huh?”

“Did you hear me?”

“No, sorry.”

Vivienne just gives a throaty chuckle. “I thought not.” She glances at Merlin and back at Arthur. “I think we’re done. Hello, Merlin.”

“Hi.”

“Oh, you poor dear. Come and tell us all about it.”

He takes his mark and can’t think of anything to say. He watches Arthur walk back into the tent. “I’m going out.”

“You don’t know that. The showstopper—”

“Is gingerbread. I’m fucked.” He winces. “Sorry. I’m… doomed.”

Vivienne sighs. “Arthur said the same thing. You may not be.”

“Arthur’s was nowhere near as bad as mine.”

“Usually people comment how they just have to beat one person.”

“Usually? I’ve only ever heard a couple people say that. And it’s terrible. I wouldn’t want Arthur to go out either.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“And why is that?”

Merlin stares at her. “Is this about that rivalry thing?”

“Something like that. Time to go, dear. Thank you.”

“Cheers.”

 

The stools are pressed close together, and Merlin ends up wedged between Gwen and Mithian, who ruffles his hair and gives him a sad smile. The whole ordeal begins, and Merlin is thankful his stupid picture blocks his view of his stupid kringla. He saw a few others when he set his plate down and his really, really is so, so much worse than everyone else’s. He feels an absurd and inappropriate giggle bubble up and starts shaking. Gwen elbows him.

When they reach his plate, Paul looks absolutely horrified. Prue takes off her glasses, blinks, and slides them back on. He can feel the cameras capturing his reaction and he struggles to hold it in. His chest shakes. Gwen elbows him harder, which only makes it worse.

They say little. What could they say? Merlin has watched every episode of Bake Off several times. This is going to be up there with Bingate. He’s going to be notorious, synonymous with abject failure.

When they reach Arthur’s Prue says, “This person has never seen a pretzel, I think.”

“Clearly not.” Paul takes a bite. “And they’ve never tasted a biscuit. That is terrible. That may be worse than the other one.” No one needs ask which other one he means. Merlin can’t help it. The manic laughter bubbles over. He puts his fist up to his mouth and bites down to get himself under control. Gwen looks horrified. Everyone else looks stunned, except Arthur. Arthur looks _wounded_.

Merlin suddenly feels light-headed. His stomach acid churns. He tries to send Arthur a look that says, “No, I’m not laughing at you; I’m embarrassed and exhausted, and I can’t believe I’m going to be a punchline forever.” Clearly it doesn’t work. Everyone looks away and Paul and Prue confer.

 

Merlin is unsurprised he comes last. Paul shakes his head. “You know,” he tells Merlin, rather than offer advice. Merlin does. He knows he is finished. He is horrified that Arthur is next. He is second from bottom and thinks Merlin was laughing at him.

Gwaine is next. The shape is all wrong. Lance is just ahead of him. His are overbaked to the point of being black around the edges. Nimueh and Freya were also overdone and place next, respectively. Mithian’s were better: the shape was off, but the flavour was right. Alice’s were just a bit better, and then Isolde’s. Merlin holds his breath and squeezes Gwen’s hand. Percy’s confections (apparently the beefcake has a gentle touch) place second, which means Gwen is number one. Everyone applauds.

“Did you pipe this?” Paul asks.

“Yes.”

“The risk paid off.” Prue beams at her. “They are heavenly.”

As they grab bags and load the bus, Merlin tries to find Arthur to apologize. Gwen is taken aside for an interview with Vivienne, and just as Merlin sees Arthur, Edric pulls him aside. “I need to get a clip of reaction. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Merlin replies. He waits until they signal and says, “That was even worse than I imagined and I think every nightmare I’ve ever had has just come true.”

“Oh god,” Edric says. “Merlin…”

“I did love being here, though, so…” he feels his eyes begin to sting and thinks _Oh no, not this, too_. He takes a deep breath. “It’s fine.” He nods. “I’m fine.”

 

Arthur won’t look at him on the bus. Gwaine plays The Psychedelic Furs on the Bluetooth speaker he’s brought this week. He tries to do some sort of eighties dance in his seat that Merlin thinks is supposed to be a terrible imitation of Armie Hammer. He’s too busy watching Arthur to laugh, but he does see Arhtur’s mouth curve into a tiny smile. The reaction lets him feel he can breathe again.

Before they exit, Lance looks at each of them. “I’m going to buy you both dinner.”

Gwaine adds, “And I’ll buy you both a pint to wash away the day.”

Merlin watches Arthur. He nods. “Okay,” Merlin says. “Thanks. Second round’s on me.”

Gwaine beams. “There’s the magician I know!”

It’s hearty fare again: sausages with potatoes, onions, and peppers. Merlin consumes his body weight, or as close to it as possible. Arthur eats politely, with a knife in one hand, and is quiet. The mood is less celebratory than the previous week, but it lightens as drinks are poured and rounds are passed. When Alice orders a tart, everyone groans, but she shushes them. “It’ll fix everyone right up,” she insists. And then she adds a bottle of cognac to the order. “My late husband’s favourite,” she adds, winking at Merlin. “He couldn’t make a biscuit either, but his croissants, well… that is why we had six children.”

“Alice, you minx!” Isolde calls.

Alice does a little wiggle and pours the first glass. She hands it to Arthur. “Here, darling. A face as gorgeous as yours should never look so low.” She winks.

Arthur smiles and gives her a big kiss on the cheek.

“That’s it, love. Now you, Magician.” She pours a tipple for Merlin and leans in, so he kisses her other cheek. Alice flutters her lashes. “I feel like it’s the sixties again!”

Merlin thinks how good someone like Alice would be for Gaius. He files the thought away.

 

Merlin curses himself as he peels his clothes off. He wants to fall into bed and pretend the day didn’t happen. Instead, he pulls on his pyjama bottoms and wads the rest into a pile. He thinks he should put a top on in case anyone else is there, but then thinks there is no way Arthur didn’t bring a second set this week. And he’ll be avoiding Merlin, so he definitely won’t be in the laundry room. He grabs his ancient Death Cab shirt, though, just in case. He’d hate to scare some unsuspecting old lady.

When Merlin opens the laundry room door, his mouth goes completely dry. Arthur _is_ there. He’s shirtless, too. His back is turned and it’s subtly but thickly muscled, rippling as he stuffs his clothes into the washing machine. He turns and Merlin’s breath hitches. Arthur’s eyes track downward, but Merlin doesn’t see where because his own eyes are on Arthur’s chest. The ring still hangs around his neck, and Merlin stares at it, then down to the little pink nipples, then to the navel, and then back to the ring. He moves his laundry bag close in front of his hips, and the realization that he’s pressing against it, aroused, is both unsurprising and embarrassing. “Arthur,” he says. His voice is gravelly, and he clears his throat, but even that sounds husky and sensual.

Arthur’s mouth is hanging open. He blinks.

“Oh god I’m sorry.” Merlin hurriedly leans into a washing machine, drops his bag, and pulls on the shirt. The atmosphere shifts.

“That’s fine, you didn’t—I mean it was okay—that is, I don’t—last time you—” Arthur huffs. “I don’t… I would be hypocritical of me to be offended you don’t have a top on.” He gestures to his chest, which Merlin _really_ tries to not use as an invitation to stare. “I, uh, didn’t think you’d… this week.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Still a waste of money.”

“Speaking of.” Merlin pulls change from his pockets and walks over to the vending machine.

“You forgot detergent?”

“Yeah, I’m a mess this week.”

“Here, use mine.” Arthur holds out the jug.

“Really?”

“Why not?”

“I just… Sorry.” Merlin takes it and pours it into the reservoir. “I mean about earlier. I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“It was a disaster.”

“It really was.” Merlin smiles anyway. “So I guess this is probably it for me.”

“No, it’s going to be me. We’re both doing terribly and tomorrow, well. My gingerbread…”

“My royal icing is, um, inconsistent.”

“So sometimes it’s good?”

“Sometimes it’s tolerable.”

“My gingerbread is consistently bad. My sister—half-sister, that is—said it’s the worst thing she’s ever had in her mouth. And then she listed some of her more repulsive exes, just to illustrate the point.”

Merlin laughs. “That’s hilarious. What’s her name?”

“Morgana.”

“Man, your family doesn’t mess around with names. So she’s Vivienne’s…”

“Yeah. My father, as it turns out, is kind of a, uh, cad.”

“ _Cad_?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Merlin clicks on the washer. “So what about you?”

“I’m not a cad.”

“I’m sure your father would say the same.”

“Probably. We don’t really speak.”

“Oh.”

“I lived with my mum, and now I’ve been on my own for quite a while.”

“Me too.”

“What about, uh, Will?”

“My flatmate?”

“Oh, is he?”

“Yes. I thought everyone already knew that.”

“I just wasn’t sure.” Arthur peeks at his phone and the timer on the washing machine.

“Maybe we should watch an old episode. For tips.”

“Of Biscuit Week?”

“What do you think? We’re here for an hour and a half or two.”

Arthur’s smile releases the tension Merlin feels he’s been carrying all day. “Okay. But we’re watching series eight because I want to see Liam.”

“And Steven,” Merlin adds.

“And Flo.”

“Oh my god Flo. Okay, series eight.” Merlin already has Netflix open on his phone.

They end up on the floor, leaned against a dryer. Arthur insists he isn’t cold, but Merlin doesn’t think he can handle erect nipples, so he just moves down and forces Arthur to follow. Their arms are pressed together. The volume is up all the way, but it’s noisy in the laundry room, so they have to stay closely huddled. Merlin can feel Arthur’s skin against his arm and every movement of his body. They dry their clothes together and watch another episode. “Good thing I haven’t used it all day and the battery’s up,” Merlin says.

Arthur just nudges him with his elbow. “I called a few people.”

“I couldn’t bear to tell my mum.”

Arthur looks grim. “Yeah. Mine would’ve been sad, too.”

They stop the show when the dryer buzzes, and Merlin pulls himself to his feet. “God I’m tired.”

“Me too. Haven’t slept well in days.”

“Me neither.” They fold, hip to hip, cozy from the heat of the laundry. It smells wonderful, and Merlin wants to roll in it. The detergent is basic, but something about the night has made it almost magic in its effect. Merlin tries to ignore the presence of Arthur’s pants in the stack. It’s the only thing he brought extra and isn’t washing. He wonder if Arthur just thinks he goes without.

“Good night, then,” Arthur says. He stops at the door and waits for Merlin. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

“Thank _you_ for keeping _me_ company,” Merlin responds. They stand and look at each other. Merlin blinks.

Arthur blinks. “Okay, well. Good night.”

“Good night, Arthur.”

“Okay, night Merlin.” Arthur’s cheeks colour. “Later.” He pushes the door open with his hip and his footsteps echo rapidly down the hall.

Merlin catches his breath before he follows.

 

The Welford Park grounds are littered with spring flowers, and Merlin takes in the scene as he prepares for another day. The floral aroma mixes with his fresh laundry when he takes a deep breath. He slept well, amazingly, and he can feel his body hum with anxiety and awareness this could be it. He cannot afford a single slip. He looks at the other bakers. He doesn’t want any of them to slip, either. If he succeeds, will Arthur be out? Merlin realizes basic attractiveness is not a compelling reason to root for someone, especially when there are multiple attractive competitors. He realizes he knows next to nothing about Arthur, so it shouldn’t matter if he goes. He doesn’t even know where he lives or what he does for a living.

Gwen grabs his hand. “Got it?” she asks.

“Yep.” The set-up is a blur. Merlin barely has time to situate himself before Sandi and Noel are telling them to bake. A camera is fixed on Merlin as he pulls out his bowl and utensils. He’s too focused to even say hi to the camera operator. He’s measuring flour when Noel, Paul, and Prue stop in front of him.

“How are you doing, Merlin?” Prue asks.

“I feel focused. I think it’s going well. I just have to do like the practice.”

“And what are you building?” Paul asks.

“A wizard’s tower.”

“Nice!” Noel fist pumps. “Merlin the Magician is back!”

“That’s the hope.”

Paul strokes his chin. “Just the one structure?”

“Well the tower is the focus. It’ll open and show little scenes on each floor, like an alchemy lab. Then I’ll be at the bottom with my staff and robes and everything.”

Noel’s eyes have lit up like he’s never heard anything so brilliant. “Do you have robes and a staff?”

Merlin laughs. “Actually yes, from uni.”

“I’ll wear mine next time if you wear yours.”

“Deal,” Merlin says. Then he realizes he probably won’t be here next time, so he looks down.

“What are you using to decorate?” Prue asks.

“Mostly chocolate.”

“Not royal icing?” Paul cuts in.

“No, there’ll be royal icing, too. But mostly chocolate.”

“Well, good luck.” Paul turns away.

Merlin has decided to bake sheets of gingerbread. “I’m scoring it,” he tells the cameraman. “After it bakes, I’ll cut through the rest of the way and then build the tower.” He shapes the dough for the fiddly interior pieces and uses a cutter for his little wizard man.

While the first batch bakes, he makes a buttercream to paste pieces together. The mixer sound is comforting, and the fluffy frosting looks light and delicious. He can’t help but stick a finger in and sneak a taste. It is perfect. He looks up and sees Arthur watching him, and he feels a bit like a naughty child. Then he realizes Arthur is watching him lick his finger and it doesn't feel childish, though it is still naughty.

Arthur is building Camelot. It’s their best guess about its appearance, anyway; Camelot was destroyed centuries ago, and his father keeps a country house on the ancestral land that is more neoclassical than anything. Last night, he mentioned it. Merlin repeats that phrase to himself—internally, of course—and pushes his sleeves up. It’s warm.

Arthur is organizing piping bags for his royal icing while Merlin prepares to do his chocolate work. Then he remembers he can’t start it too early or it’ll set up, so he, too, sets out piping bags.

The timer beeps and he pulls out the gingerbread. It appears to be perfectly baked, and Merlin hurriedly slides the biscuits onto a baking sheet. And squawks.

“What’s wrong?” Gwen calls.

Merlin’s thumb is rapidly turning a purplish red. It stings. “Stupid me,” he fumes. “My hand slipped and I caught the tray.”

Sandi has arrived and she looks at it. “Health and safety. Let’s get you looked at.”

The crew slathers it in ointment and wraps a blue plaster on it. He’s only out five minutes, but it feels like a setback. When he gets back to work, he sees Gwen is assembling her blacksmith shop. Arthur’s castle pieces are flat and he has his piping bags full. Merlin arranges his pieces and watches Arthur get started. He squeezes the first bag, which holds a massive amount of grey icing.

And he squeezes.

He squeezes some more. Nothing comes out the end. Arthur looks up, stretches his neck, rolls his shoulders, and tries again. He squeezes hard, and Merlin watches him stop, arms going akimbo. The bag has split and grey icing has splashed across the gingerbread. “Oh shit,” Merlin says. Arthur looks back at him. His face has gone pale. He makes a sound that is not a word, but Merlin nods. “New bag. Before it sets up.” Arthur nods.

Merlin takes out his knife to cut his gingerbread, which has cooled. He wanted it to be warm when he cut it, but it’s too late now. It’s awkward holding anything without using his thumb, but he knows it isn’t impossible; it can’t be. He slits the blade along the first ridge and it comes away perfectly. Maybe—just maybe—this time it’ll go his way.

Arthur has his icing in a new bag. Merlin pauses cutting and watches him square his shoulders, then tells himself to focus. He slides the knife along as Arthur squeezes. The second piece separates as Arthur keeps squeezing. He hears Arthur let out a little mad laughter. Merlin moves to the final scored line on his gingerbread. Arthur squeezes. He squeezes.

The tip bursts free from the bag. Icing sprays out the tip, splattering all of Arthur’s castle pieces in a Jackson Pollock-style royal icing motif.

And then Merlin realizes he’s bleeding. _He_ is, not Arthur. He’s bleeding because he was watching Arthur and he has cut himself and oh, oh god there is blood on the gingerbread and all over the counter and he is rather dizzy and the floor seems like a very nice place to be.

He opens his eyes and Arthur is above him, so he closes and opens them again. He’s still there. “You cut yourself, you idiot.”

“Not on purpose you… you… cabbage head.”

“Are you okay?”

“I can’t use my thumb.”

“Now your whole hand is shot.”

“I told you it’d be me.”

“Merlin.” Arthur is looking at him and his face is so close and Merlin _really_ doesn’t want to go home, and that’s when the crew arrives.

“Mr. Pendragon, we need you to clear out so we can look at it. Is there blood on you?”

“No.” Arthur backs up.

“You better finish your Camelot,” Merlin says.

Arthur makes a face. He walks away.

“Yeah, we’re going to need to get you stitches in this.”

Noel stands above them. “And a full cleaning crew. It looks like a vampire smorgasbord.”

Merlin shuts his eyes. “It was going so well.”

Sandi reaches down to pat his shoulder. “I know, love. Let’s get you to A&E.”

 

The paperwork is the worst part. No one wants to be sued. The doctor is lovely though, and it’s a tiny stitch. It should heal fast, and the location really shouldn’t keep him from any work.

He’d even be able to keep baking, if he stayed.

They load him back into a car and take him back to the set to gather his things. Everyone’s work has already been judged, and they’re filming the final sequences as the car drops him off. He hears laughter as he walks toward the tent. Applause. Then everyone spills out. Gwaine is grinning. “Magician, did you do that on purpose?”

“What?”

“Did you know?”

“What?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m out?”

“No one told you?”

“That I’m out?”

Gwaine hoots. He leans his head back and lets out a formidable laugh. “No.”

Merlin’s heart pounds. “Is it Arthur?”

“No, the princess got lucky, too, because that castle was a travesty.”

Arthur walks up beside Gwaine and glares at him. “I can hear you.”

“I know!” Gwaine is still laughing.

“What happened?” Merlin asks.

“We’re safe,” Arthur says. “No one sent home.”

“Two next week?”

“Two next week.”

Merlin sighs. And then he sees Gwen sashay out of the tent, triumphant. “Star baker!” she exclaims. And Merlin is swept into a celebration that takes them all the way back to the hotel, so he doesn’t have time to think about anything other than how relieved he is, how happy for Gwen, and how much he’s starting to love these people who are already like a family.

“Is it always like this?” he asks Gwen in the car park.

“I wonder,” she says, stars in her eyes as she watches Lance carry her bags to a cab.

“See you next week.” He pulls her into a tight hug, then watches her follow Lance.

“You take the train back to the city?” Arthur is behind him, roller suitcase on the ground beside him.

“I do.”

“I, uh, I can drive you to the station if you want to save on cab fare.”

“Oh. That would be great, yeah.”

“It’s just here.” Arthur had insisted his father has money, not him, but the Land Rover is new and tells a slightly different story. Merlin sets his duffel in the back next to Arthur’s suitcase and wonders if maybe it’s just a different understanding of “money.”

The drive is quiet. Merlin knows he should say something. Anything. Anything at all. His brain is a traitor. “Well at least that’s over,” he finally manages.

Arthur sniffs a laugh. “It was pretty spectacularly bad.”

“How was your castle?”

“You saw what happened.”

“Were you able to salvage it?”

“It really just got worse. I should’ve done the chocolate like you were planning.”

“Does everyone think I did it on purpose?”

“No, of course not. Yours was going a lot better than mine already, anyway. So if anything…”

“What?”

“It would just look like you sacrificed yourself to help me. Again.”

Arthur parks and opens the back to retrieve Merlin’s bag. “Where do you live?” Merlin asks.

“Camden.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why.”

“Me too.” Merlin peeks at the time on his phone. “I need to…” He points. “Thanks, Arthur.”

“See you next week.” Arthur extends his hand again, and Merlin takes it. They don’t shake, again, just stand there and both look at their clasped hands. Finally, Arthur clears his throat and pulls his hand away. Merlin shoulders his duffel and walks away.

The tingling is worse this week. It doesn’t stop until he’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should know that Arthur's royal icing nightmare is based on a true story. I have a terrible history with the stuff.
> 
> Please let me know if you like how it's coming along!! And thank you so much for taking the time to read this story. I know the chapters are long and there's so much other great stuff out there, so it really means a lot to me.


	3. Bread Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's week three of The Great British Bake Off, and it's Bread Week!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you follow me on Tumblr or anything, you know I've been super busy with grad school work. I apologize that this has taken so long, but it is also quite a bit longer. Hopefully that makes up for it!

“Mum, this is too nice. I can’t believe you—”

“Oh hush. I am so proud of you, Merlin. I am always proud of you, but to put yourself out there like this…” Hunith’s eyes tear up and Merlin reaches across the table to take her hand. “Anyway,” she says, recovering. “There’s more.”

“What? No.” Merlin takes the package and pulls the ribbon off. He sets both packages on the table, stunned.

“I know you have to wear the same thing twice, and I thought it was so perfect anyway, why not get two?” Merlin has never owned a shirt this nice, let alone two; he is not sure how to react. They are pale blue and cashmere so light it will be perfect for any weather. Merlin sees the label and his eyes bulge. “Shh,” she shushes him before he can protest. “Remember it needs dry cleaned, dearest.”

“Of course.”

“The colour is going to look just lovely in that big bright tent with all the green outside. I just can’t wait to see it.”

“I’m just lucky I’m going back.”

“Pish. It can’t have been so bad.”

“No, it really, really was. I’ve never seen anything so terrible. You’ll see.”

“And your hand?”

“It’s better.” A waiter stops by their table and clears away empty plates. “Thanks,” Merlin says. The waiter smiles with a dimple, and Merlin returns it. Hunith watches him walk away.

“Well he seems like a nice boy…”

“Mum. No.”

“I just worry about you here in the big city all by yourself with no one to make sure you’re sleeping well and—”

“I have Will.”

“That is supposed to reassure me?”

“I have Gaius.”

“He may need you even more than Will.”

“I think he’d get on well with one of the other bakers, actually. Her name is Alice.”

“Really? Any nice gentlemen who’d like to bake for your old mum then?”

“Hmm… There is a nice bloke named Percy…”

“What’s he like?”

“About ten feet tall and solid muscle.”

“Oo!” Hunith grins.

“And if not him, there’s always Paul Hollywood.”

“Tempting.”

“You’ll meet them all at the finale.”

“I better buy a new dress.”

Merlin eyes the jumpers in front of him. “Too bad you’ve bankrupted yourself,” he teases. She pats his hand and sips her water. “What time is your train?

“Three.”

“We should stop by the store before you go.”

“And then you need to practise.”

“Of course.”

 

Merlin doesn’t let himself pack until Friday morning. He carefully folds the cashmere tops and stacks them on top of the jeans in his duffel. They’re a lighter hue than the blue he wore the week before, and he doesn’t consciously picture Arthur’s eyes, but he recognizes that is the association he makes with the colour. He _does_ consciously visualize Arthur’s bare chest, however, and he thinks it’s probably good he won’t spend another night tucked up beside him on the laundry room floor. It was comfortable and tempting and Merlin recognizes he’s only one kind word away from making a fool of himself. _I need to get laid_ , he thinks. It’s been… too long. Months, to be honest. And the last time he pulled it was disappointing, to say the least. Now, he’s so starved for it, he’s lusting after virtually anything with testosterone.

Not that Arthur had made it easy so far. The chest-baring tops and shirtless laundry were not helping. Of course, Arthur probably didn’t realize. Unless he noticed Merlin staring. He remembers Will telling him, “You have no chill,” several times over the past year. He resolves to have far more chill over the coming days. He will bake, not gawk. He’s there to win a cake stand, not find a date. Or flirt with probably-straight posh people, even if they are gorgeous.

Besides, Arthur’s still a prat, even if he did lend him laundry soap and drive him to the station. A probably-straight prat. With pretty eyes.

 

Merlin arrives at the hotel at the same time as Mithian. She’s pulling a discretely lush suitcase from the boot of an Audi. She smiles when she spots him. “Merlin! I’m so happy to see you. How is your hand?”

“Much better. It only took one stitch, and that’ll come out next week.”

“How will you knead?”

“The blue glove again, like week one.”

“You poor thing.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not in a place that’ll hurt or anything.” He shows her the bandage.

“You’re here. That’s the important thing.”

“Exactly.” Merlin holds the door for her. She passes him and her perfume is soft and floral. Really, it’s amazing how good-looking so many of the bakers are this series. The bellhop rushes to take Mithian’s bags, but she doesn’t seem to notice the poor guy.

“See you in the morning,” she says.

“G’night.” He watches her stroll away in her patent leather pumps and perfectly-tailored trousers. He looks down at his Converse and decides he should probably buy a new pair.

 

The bus is there early. It’s going to be a long day, and Merlin is up before the sun. He has slept better all week because his nerves are in check. This week, he can operate in his sleep; this is what he’s been doing his whole life. He’s the first one outside. The driver looks half-asleep, but Merlin feels great. He slides into a middle seat and waits.

Lance arrives next. He takes the seat across from Merlin and shakes his hand. “How are you?” he asks with an earnest smile.

“Well, thanks. You?”

“Worried, to tell the truth. Bread is not my expertise.”

“Oh, well, you just have to get through three rounds, right? And if all else fails, just chop your thumb off.” Merlin laughs.

Lance chuckles. “I think they’ll catch on. It’s better, though? Bad luck for this week.”

“It won’t be too bad.”

The others arrive in twos and threes. Mithian and Arthur arrive last. She’s wearing a white dress with a low, sweetheart neckline, and Merlin thinks it looks like it was made for her. Arthur is smiling appreciatively as they walk to the bus, and Merlin is temporarily stunned by their collective attractiveness. Arthur is in dark denim and scarlet, cut low again. “She’s so pretty,” Gwen whispers.

“So are you,” Merlin says. He watches Arthur watch Mithian. He turns to Gwen. He wonders if she doesn’t notice Lance watch her. Today she is in tidy cream shorts and a pink top and Lance can’t seem to keep his eyes off her legs. _We’re here to bake_ , Merlin thinks. He watches Gwen push a stray piece of hair behind her ear. For the thousandth time, he wonders what the casting director could have possibly been thinking.

“Let’s do this!” Gwaine calls. The driver releases the brake and they’re off. It’s a short ride, and there it is: Welford Park and the great white tent. Everyone seems to let out a happy little sigh, and just like that, it’s time. Gwaine, as usual, voices it.

“Ladies and gentlemen: Bread Week.”

 

A few runners and crew members are milling around when the bus drops them off, and Merlin doesn’t even notice Edric until he’s right in front of him. “Hey, Merlin!”

“Oh, hi. Good morning.” He’s stopped in the middle of the path, and the other bakers have to step around them. Merlin’s pretty certain Gwaine will give him a hard time about it later, so he takes an awkward side-step and fells someone collide with him. Merlin reaches out as he falls and hisses with pain as it pulls his stitch. He manages to catch his weight on the right side, but it’s less than ideal. This time, he isn’t the only one to fall: of course, it’s Arthur.

“Jesus, Merlin. Really?”

“Oww.” Merlin is on his butt on the gravel, looking at his hand.

“Are you bleeding?” Arthur’s voice is tight.

“No, you’re fine. There’s nothing on you.”

“That isn’t what I--”

“Merlin, I’m so sorry.” Edric cuts in. He reaches down to help Merlin up. “I just wanted to catch you before I’m technically working with you because I didn’t get a chance last week.”

Merlin looks down to help Arthur, but he isn’t looking; he’s already moved on. He stands on his own and dusts himself off.

“I know it’s probably inappropriate, and you can say no, of course. I wouldn’t want you to think it may affect coverage. I mean, I’m just a camera operator.” Merlin can’t help but smile at the rambling. Arthur snorts and walks away. “I just--I know I have to try or I’ll be kicking myself for a long time.” He takes a deep breath. “Can I have your number?”

Merlin grins. He looks up and sees Arthur peek back before he goes in the tent. _He’s going to think I’m staring at him_. Everyone’s going to know, but why be embarrassed? They probably get this sort of thing all the time, with their muscles and hair and nice cars. “You can,” he says, and holds out his hand to take Edric’s mobile. He has no problem putting that ball in Edric’s court.

Merlin doesn’t have equipment today, just his notes, and he barely has time to stash them in his workstation before a runner is calling for him. “Vivienne wants you.”

“Got it.”

She’s waiting for him by a bench in a mass of orange and purple wildflowers. The breeze is warm and light, and Merlin feels _happy_. “Good morning,” he says.

“You look relaxed.”

“It’s Bread Week.”

“Merlin, people don’t like Bread Week.”

“Because they’re afraid of Paul.”

“Exactly. And you’re not?”

“I’m more afraid of Prue than Paul, I guess. I don’t know. I’m not afraid of either of them. They’ll tell me what I need to hear, good or bad. It won’t be anything I don’t know.”

“Like last week?”

“I knew I was terrible last week. It wasn’t their fault. They’re being honest.”

“That sounds fair.”

“It is. And I love bread. It’s a beautiful day. I’m _happy_.” Merlin smiles, and he really lets himself take in the moment and enjoy it. Maybe it was giving his number away, or maybe it’s the weather. Either way, he’s here and he isn’t out and he’s going to enjoy it.

 

Merlin is in the very back this week and he’s disappointed to see Gwen is near the front. However, Lance is across the aisle from her, so Merlin can’t complain. He sees Lance take her hand as if he’s going to kiss it, blush, and let it go. Gwen has her other hand pressed to her chest as she laughs.

Mithian is behind Lance and Arthur is behind Gwen. They’re talking at Arthur’s station, and Merlin watches the way her body curves toward him, hips pushed out. Alice sits on a stool at the station behind Arthur. She’s sipping tea and watching everyone. When her eyes meet Merlin’s, she winks. Percy is behind her. He’s sleeveless this week, and Merlin swallows. Gwaine is across from him again, and Merlin wonders if the show runners have just decided to keep them together every week because they look so good together and are obviously friends. He looks across from himself and sees Freya. They were close last week, too. This week she’s wearing glittery makeup and a shirt with cats on it. Freya looks delicate and sensitive, and Merlin wonders if he’s supposed to be the male counterpart. He is neither delicate nor sensitive, so he is probably a disappointment. Once again, he finds himself wondering if viewers will like him, and once again, he tells himself to stop trying to analyze it and just be present. He takes a fortifying breath.

 

“Hello bakers and welcome to Bread Week,” Noel begins.

“Yes, we’re very happy to see you all here and in one piece,” Sandi adds.

“Even if we are all a little worse for wear after last week.”

“But never mind that! This week it’s time to _prove_ your skill to the judges.”

“I like that. That was a bread pun.”

“I thought it would get a rise out of you.”

“Not a bit crummy.”

“We’re on quite a roll!”

“We should stop before it gets stale.”

“Can’t have it going a-rye.”

“Exactly.” Noel looks at them. “For the signature round, Paul and Prue would like you to make your best plaited loaf.”

“Yes, it should be at least three strands, any flavors you like, but it must show a perfect plait.”

“You have three and a half hours.”

“On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

 

“Merlin dear, how is that hand?” Sandi asks. He is the judges' first stop.

He wiggles his blue-gloved hands. “It’s good, actually.” He points. “This is where I cut it, and I had a stitch, but it’s healing nicely.”

“Not ideal for kneading, though,” Paul observes.

“I’m just so happy to be here, I don’t mind.”

“We’re happy to have you,” Prue says. “Tell us about your plaited loaf.”

“This one is one of my family favourites. It’s cherry chocolate.”

“Really? A sweet loaf?” Paul asks.

“Yes. Dark chocolate pieces that melt into it a little, with a good crust and pieces of cherry with a little tartness.”

“Like a Black Forest loaf,” Sandi says.

“Yeah, a bit. It’s a recipe I got years ago from a friend, and I’ve used ever since.”

“Well that sounds delightful. I look forward to it.” Prue smiles.

“And how are your plaiting skills?” Paul asks. He looks skeptical, obviously remembering the mess from last week.

“Oh, well, I’m doing an eight-strand plait.”

“Eight?” Sandi exclaims.

“Yes.” Merlin grins. “It’s just, I really like bread and I’m so glad I’m here…”

“We’ll see how it goes.” Paul looks at his ingredients, raises an eyebrow, and turns away. Sandi comes around and gives him a squeeze before moving on.

Merlin uses his hands to knead, rather than the hook. He knows the feel of the dough, and even with one hand gloved, he can tell exactly how much flour to add. He folds in the chopped bits and lets it prove on the counter. It’s a warm morning, and he’s afraid the proving drawer will make it over-prove and collapse. “I’m doing it as close to home as possible,” he tells the woman behind the camera that captures him bag the bowl. “That should double in size.”

He’s gone fast, he sees when he looks up. Many bakers are still kneading. Percy in particular. His arms flex as he presses his dough, folds in, and presses again. Each movement sends ripples through his biceps that Merlin raises his eyebrows at. Freya has also stopped to watch, as has Isolde. He picks the dough up and slaps it on the butcher block and Freya sighs. “Mm hmm,” Isolde murmurs. She peeks back at Merlin and Freya and nods a little. Noel chuckles as he walks between them to talk to Percy. Merlin can’t hear them, but he hears Gwaine’s laughter.

Waiting for the first prove exists outside normal time, like so much else in the tent. The floor feels bouncier than usual, and it’s disorienting. Merlin goes to the tea station and switches on the kettle.

“Hey.” Arthur seems to materialize beside him. He reaches up and pulls down a blue mug. “It matches your shirt,” he points out, holding it up.

“It does,” Merlin agrees. 

“It’s nice. The colour looks… uh, it’s nice.”

“Thanks.” Merlin places a teabag in his mug. “Yours is also… nice.”

Arthur looks down at his red shirt and lifts and eyebrow. “Thanks.” He pulls down a second mug and places a teabag in each of them.

“Thirsty?”

“Oh, well, Mithian is still working and I told her I’d make her a cup.”

Merlin nods. “Mithian.”

“Yeah. It’s funny, we actually have a lot in common.”

“Why’s that funny?”

“I just didn’t think, you know, based on the usual bakers, there’d be anyone who is so much like me.”

“Well that must be nice.”

Arthur frowns. “It is?” He looks confused, and Merlin realizes his tone has changed unintentionally. He forces himself to smile and pours the water. He tugs on his teabag. “What are you doing?” Arthur watches it bob up and down.

“It’s faster like this.”

“Just set a timer and leave it.”

Merlin glares at him. “I know how to make tea, Arthur.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“What?”

“If you just leave it and wait four minutes, it’ll taste better.”

“Four minutes?”

“It isn’t that long.” Arthur looks at his watch. “Four minutes.” He glares at Merlin’s hand. “Really, just leave it.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how you made tea.”

“It isn’t how I make tea.”

“Then clearly, you’ve no idea what you’re doing.”

“I do too.”

“Obviously not.” He makes an insufferably superior look. “Honestly, is that how you usually function?”

“Don’t look so, so contemptuous.”

“Contemptuous?”

“I can make tea.”

“Sure you can.”

Merlin jiggles the teabag again.

“Just leave it!”

“No!” He watches Arthur’s nostrils flare. “Really?”

“Yes. You’re ruining it.”

“That does not ruin the tea.”

“But it messes with the flavour.”

“Does not. We need to find the tea fairy and ask.”

“What?”

“The tea fairy. Who brings the tea during the interviews.”

“Uh.” Arthur looks at his watch. “Er, why is that?”

“Because she makes the best tea.”

“She does?” Arthur’s mouth quirks up.

“What, has she not visited you then?”

“I’m not sure she has visited me. Maybe.”

“Maybe you haven’t been good enough to get a visit.” Merlin catches himself looking at the ring hanging from Arthur’s chain again, and then down his firm chest and abs.

“Why, is the tea fairy like Father Christmas?”

“I don’t know, have you made it on the naughty list?” Merlin asks without thinking. He realizes he’s still looking at Arthur’s chest when he clears his throat. Merlin’s eyes jerk up to his face, where Arthur’s lips are slightly parted and he’s staring at Merlin. “That is…”

“It’s been four minutes.” Arthur’s chest has gone a bit red, and Merlin is mortified. He wonders where his filter went; this is wildly inappropriate—he essentially just harassed the man.

“Sorry.” He tries to recover. “My filter must be broken because—” He stops.

“Because?”

_I feel like I’ve known you longer than a fortnight_ , he thinks. “Because of your… tea superiority complex.”

“Tea superiority complex? Really?”

“Four minutes, _Mer_ lin. Stop touching it, _Mer_ lin.” Merlin has become an eight-year-old and he can’t stop himself.

“Merlin?”

“What?”

“Stop talking.”

“Yeah.” He tosses the teabag in the bin. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Arthur just nudges him and dumps a spoon of sugar into his mug. “You really are…” he trails off.

“What?” Merlin watches him stir milk into all three mugs.

Arthur shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… enjoy your tea.” He takes the two mugs and strides purposefully away.

The tea is delicious.

 

Merlin splits the dough again and again, weighing it to make sure it’s evenly divided. He rolls each piece and lays them out. His notes tell him how to cross the plait, but he’s done this so many times, it’s barely needed. This plait is one of the first things he copied from Bake Off. He remembers his satisfaction the first time it worked, and he focuses on that positive energy as he crosses piece over piece. Noel stands by his side. “It looks like you’ve done this before.”

“More times than I can count.”

“Merlin, are you showing off?”

Merlin’s face heats. “Am I?”

Noel grins. “It’s okay. Can you do my hair like this?”

“As soon as I’m done.”

“I have some hair-slides to pin it with.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I borrowed them from Sandi.”

“Really.”

“You wouldn’t think it, but she’s mad for hair decoration.”

“I can see that.”

“Hair-slides, ribbons, all sorts of things.”

Merlin tucks in the ends of his loaf and slides the baking tray into another bag. He sets it in a nice, sunny spot and leaves it. Noel gives him a thumbs up and wanders off. Paul walks by with an appraising look. When he sees the loaf, he cocks his head to the side, inscrutable. Merlin decides to walk around so he doesn’t go mad.

Gwen’s loaf is full of savoury herbs. “Spicy.” She smiles as Merlin sniffs at it and licks his lips, making rapturous noises. He looks up and sees Arthur watching him with pursed lips. He looks over and sees Mithian is happily sipping her tea.

“It looks great,” he tells Gwen.

“I did this so many times this week.”

“How was work?”

“Not bad. Dad and Elyan have really covered for me.”

“And…?”

Gwen gives him a sly smile and peeks over. Lance is busy setting his timer. “He texted,” she whispers. “Finally.”

“Did you meet up?”

“No. Too busy practising and working.”

“What does he do again?”

“Teacher.”

“Oh, I remember. Caring for small children.”

Gwen sighs. She peeks over at him. “Yeah.” She smiles.

“Okay, this needs to prove.”

“Right. Right.” Gwen slides her tray into a bag and places it carefully in the proving drawer. “Anyway… I saw you talking to Edric earlier.”

“I was. He asked for my phone number.”

“Well then! Good on him!”

“I thought so.” Merlin shrugs. “I was just thinking how long it’s been since I’ve had a date or anything.”

“Or anything.”

“Oh shut it.” He nudges her and Gwen pushes back, laughing. “Well I’m very happy to hear you might pull.” Her voice seems to carry.

“Gwen!” She covers her mouth and Merlin looks around. Gwaine is casting them a _very_ interested look. Percy is looking at Gwaine. Mithian has just managed to not do a spit take. Lance looks confused. And Arthur… Arthur looks… annoyed? Merlin thinks, _He can’t be homophobic_ , not after they’ve hung out and done laundry together. And he gave him a ride. And he likes Liam. And John. And, well, can a man be homophobic _and_ be on Bake Off? And last. Obviously there was Cedric. _Edric sounds a lot like Cedric_. He doesn’t know why that annoys him as much as it does. It isn’t Edric’s fault.

Merlin’s anxiety level rises gradually until it’s time to put his loaf in the oven. He slides the tray in, closes it softly, and sets his timer. Hopefully it’s smooth sailing. He takes a deep breath. He needs this. He needs to reset. He looks toward Gwen to see her status and finds Arthur looking back again. Merlin wonders if he’s really annoyed him that badly. Arthur is also setting his timer for his bake. _Back in sync_ , Merlin thinks, and it relaxes him. Then he realizes it relaxes him, and he’s confused by the feeling. Then he considers Arthur’s chest hair and thinks, _This is not confusing_.

“Oh hell.” Merlin turns. Isolde is holding her tray. The dough on it is a tight-coiled block. “it’s… ugh.” She slaps the tray on the counter.

“It might puff up in the oven,” Merlin says. “Some, anyway.”

“Right.”

“And the flavour.”

“Right.”

Merlin decides to be quiet.

The oven is slower than his at home, so he leaves the loaf in nearly until the end. He slides it onto a cooling rack and fans it to cool. It makes a nice hollow-sounding thump when he taps it and it smells delicious.

“Bakers, you have one minute remaining,” Noel calls.

Merlin moves it to a wood block and sets it at the end of his station before they even do the countdown.

 

Vivienne smiles from behind the camera. “I take it that went better?”

“I think that went about as well as possible.” Merlin sees Arthur stand to the side. He’s up next. Vivienne follows his eyes, then looks back.

“So you’re having more fun this weekend so far?”

“So far. But it’s early. Anything could happen still.”

“It is the technical next. You think they’ll like the cherry chocolate?”

“I hope they like it.” He can’t help but look over at Arthur. “You can never tell about anything from the outside.”

 

Paul saws into the plait. He’s smiling. He pushes on the grain and raises his eyebrows. He looks at Prue and they each take a bite. He looks at Merlin, then at Prue, and then back to Merlin. Merlin can feel the cameras capturing every look that may cross his face. And then Paul reaches his hand out.

Merlin’s heart stops and restarts. He grins and shakes Paul’s hand. “Oh,” he sighs.

“Merlin, you are back. Thank you. This is…”

“I may get this recipe from you,” Prue cuts in. “This is just lovely.” She takes another bite.

Noel is quiet because he’s eating, and Merlin is even more proud of that than the handshake.

They move on quickly, and Merlin can barely feel for Isolde and Freya. Isolde has a block, and Freya’s is doughy. Percy’s is well-baked, but the flavours are off, and Gwaine’s is shaped perfectly but burnt on the bottom. Gwen’s herb loaf is a huge hit, but Lance’s is untidy.

Then it’s Arthur’s turn. Merlin, once again, can barely hear, but he sees smiles. It’s a savoury loaf, too, and he watches Paul hold it up to examine the crispy crust.

“Just how I like it,” he hears Prue say. He watches Arthur’s shoulders relax, and he realizes he’s relaxing, too, as if he’s watching from home, not competing.

Overall, the round went as expected: a few struggled, most were fine, and a few did well. Merlin is relieved he’s one of the latter. Were it not for the ghost of Biscuit Week hanging over him, he’d be ecstatic. Instead, he brushes aside the success—literally brushing himself free of flour and sugar—and follows everyone else from the tent.

Gwen pulls him into a hug. “I’m so relieved,” she whispers. “I was so worried you were going out.”

“Me too.” Merlin squeezes her. “And well done on the Signature.” She beams and tucks her hands into her pockets.

Vivienne pats him on the shoulder when he reaches her. “Just a minute.” She turns back. Arthur is in the shot, standing in dappled sunlight beneath a grand live oak. “So, better than you thought?”

“Surprisingly. I thought I was distracted, but it worked out.” He glances at Merlin, then back to Vivienne. “Maybe it made me more patient. Sometimes things are best when they aren’t rushed.”

Merlin scoffs, and Arthur gives him a pointed look. Vivienne turns. “Merlin, you know to stay out of the shot.”

“Sorry.” He ignores Arthur’s eye roll and looks down at his tatty sneakers.

Vivienne continues. “Okay Arthur, so how are you feeling about the Technical?”

“Hopefully it isn’t too diabolical. I’m sure Paul has something tricky planned, but I’ve calmed down from earlier.” Arthur wasn’t calm earlier? Merlin watches him shift his weight from foot to foot. He thinks about his shoulders and realizes he saw Arthur relax, though he hadn’t noticed his nerves before that. They both needed to succeed this week, to prove their worth.

“Thanks Arthur. Okay, Merlin, your turn.”

“Arthur’s eyes flit down to Merlin’s shirt, then up to his hair, and Merlin wonders if he’s covered in flour again. Arthur has a streak on his shoulder, and without thinking Merlin reaches out to brush it off. His fingers connect with Arthur’s shirt and Merlin feels him seize up beneath his hand like a broken machine. Merlin yanks his hand back.

“Sorry,” he says. “You’ve got…”

“Oh.” Arthur looks down, then at Merlin’s hand, and then back. “I—”

“I didn’t mean to, uh… Sorry.” He steps awkwardly around Arthur, hyperaware of the waiting cameras. He doesn’t know what has changed in a week, but this Arthur is completely different than the man he watched Netflix with the week before. He frowns and refuses to watch him walk away.

“Merlin?”

“Hmm?” He looks at Vivienne.

“Everything alright?”

“Fine, yeah.”

“Okay, well, tell us about that cherry chocolate loaf.”

 

“Now, of course, it is time for the Technical Challenge,” Noel starts.

“And as it is Bread Week, this one comes to us from Paul,” Sandi adds.

“Any advice for our bakers?”

Paul stares them down. “Give it room,” he says.

Noel nods. “Right, well, time to give us room.”

“Off you go.” Sandi waits for them to leave before asking, “What are they doing today?”

“Paddling pool.”

“Ah, nice.” She looks at the bakers. “Paul wants you to make kulich.”

“Yes, kulich. You have three and a half hours. On your mark.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

When Merlin pulls aside the cloth he finds ingredients for a sweet bread, with lemons for a glaze and a cylindrical baking tin. The recipe looks standard, but he predicts the rise is important. It needs room to grow, and it will probably fall easily. He tells this to the camerawoman who follows his setup. “As long as this springy floor doesn’t mess with it, it should be fine.” He starts by letting the yeast activate in warm water, then rereads through the recipe. He’s in the zone.

He uses the stand mixer first. This week it’s a cool mint green, and he takes a moment to appreciate its efficiency as he adds candied fruit and raisins to the dough. After he switches it off, he digs in with his hands. He relishes the sticky feel on his hand and wishes he wasn’t gloved. _Oh well. You’re here_. He kneads and kneads until it’s workable, enjoying the feel, not paying attention to anything else. He places it in the proving drawer and sets a timer for an hour, though he’ll check it then and see if it needs longer.

When he finally looks up, he sees he has taken longer than most of the bakers, except Freya, who is trying to work at a sticky mess. Merlin grimaces, thinking back to the disaster from last week. He thinks she should keep at it, rather than add flour (which she is attempting to do), but he doesn’t think it’s his place to say.

He passes the hour with Isolde. She’s from Leicester, but her new husband works in Cardiff, so they moved last fall. They travel a lot, mostly for hiking and climbing, and they’re planning to visit New Zealand for their anniversary. She wants to start a travel business that plans holidays for outdoorsy, active people.

“What about outdoorsy, non-active people?” Merlin asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I like the outdoors, but I don’t want to have to work for it.”

Isolde smiles. “Sounds boring, but I think I could manage.”

“Maybe I’ll have you plan something when this is all over.”

“Where would you want to go?”

Merlin tried to think of somewhere exotic and natural, but he’d really rather just go back to France or Italy. “Where do you think I should go?”

“Have you been to Australia?”

“No, not yet.”

“That could be a start. Or Tanzania.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be scaling Kilimanjaro anytime soon.”

“You never know!”

“Oh, I think it’s a safe assumption. But we’ll see.”

 

The dough is nice and fluffy when he punches it down for the second prove. He prepares the tin as it rests, then bags it and lets it sit. He starts getting ready for the lemon glaze, even though it’s early. He won’t prepare that until it’s baking, but he wants to be ready.

Ahead of him, the bakers seem to be paired off. Gwaine and Percy are leaning against Percy’s workstation, sharing rugby stories. Lance has brought Gwen tea, and he’s standing, while she perches on a stool. Merlin can’t hear what they’re talking about, but they’re lost to it. Mithian is leaning against Arthur’s station, also talking. Arthur nods, every so often, listening. He leans down to check the cylinder and Merlin watches Mithian smooth her hair and apron. Freya and Isolde have pulled stools up next to Alice and are in a lively debate about some television show. Nimueh, meanwhile, is calmly watching from the front of the tent. Her eyes meet Merlin’s and then continue their cool appraisal of the group. She smiles to herself and takes a sip of water.

 

Merlin moves the oven racks down to accommodate the cylinder. It’s too tall for the proving drawer, but it will fit in the oven on the bottom rack. He adjusts the temperature, hoping it won’t burn on the bottom, then oh-so-carefully places it in to bake.

Sandi calls out that one hour remains, and Merlin works on the lemon glaze. It’s thick and white, and Merlin isn’t certain it is right, but it’s delicious. When the timer goes, he’s hesitant to pull the kulich out. It’s hard to tell if it’s done all the way through, but it sounds right, so he lets it cool. The tent smells wonderful.

Five minutes remain when he drizzles the glaze. It runs farther down the side that Merlin would like, but it still looks pretty and appetizing, like a spring centerpiece. He wonders how the loaf tastes, but he knows he feels good and that will help him. Bread hates stress. He centers the kulich on a white dish and decorates with flower petals and sprinkles. It looks like spring and Merlin thinks it must be right.

Sandi calls time and immediately asks them to place their kulich behind their photographs. Merlin’s picture is first this week, on the left, and he’s happy he won’t have to wait for the full round to hear feedback. He tidies his station and washes his hands before wandering into the sunlight.

Edric is waiting for him. “Hey!” His smile is bright. “How’d it go?”

“Not bad.” Merlin grins. “I think it’s actually pretty good.”

“And I saw the loaf earlier was brilliant.”

“It went okay.”

Edric does a subtle little fist pump. “Alright!”

Merlin doesn’t really know how to react, so he just smiles and puts his hands in his pockets. He’s suddenly aware of them in a way he wasn’t before and he doesn’t know what to do. “You’re my interviewer this round?”

“I am. Let’s just go here.” He points and adjusts the camera. “Yeah, perfect. Okay, so, how’d it go?”

“It rose really well, so I’m pleased with the results. I like panettone, so I think I did this right.”

“Was it similar?”

Merlin shrugs. “A lot of different cultures have celebration loaves. Panettone is just the one I’m most familiar with.”

 

Most of the bakers are already in the tent when Merlin returns, and they set up the stools. He tries to not look at the loaves, knowing no comparison is really possible yet, but he thinks his looks decent regardless. He sits near the opposite end from his loaf and waits for Gwen to squeeze in beside him. His heart starts pounding, and he puts his face in his hands, breathing slow to stay calm. He feels Gwen sit down beside him, so he leans against her, head to shoulder, hip to hip. The body is firm; harder than Gwen’s.

Merlin jerks back up. “Sorry, I—” Arthur is watching him, lips parted. “I thought you were Gwen.”

Arthur’s mouth quirks up. He looks down at himself. “I’m not.” His voice is smooth and deep, and the hair stands up on Merlin’s arms. He can’t help but look down, too, at Arthur’s apron-clad form. He feels his chest heat and knows his cheeks are probably pink.

“No, you are not,” he agrees. He watches Arthur’s neck bob as he swallows. “She doesn’t harass me about tea.”

“Excuse me?”

“Gwen doesn’t harass me—she probably doesn’t harass anyone, actually—about—”

“Yes, yes, I got it.” Arthur frowns at him. “What’s wrong, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re very quiet.” He doesn’t meet Merlin’s eyes, but stares at the row of pictures. “Why? Yours looks… good.”

“It looks fine. And it may taste terrible.”

“It still won’t be worth tears.”

Merlin presses his lips together and nods. “Yours looks… quite nice.”

“Ready!” a runner calls. Noel and Sandi stand by and watch everyone find their seats. Arthur presses his arm into Merlin’s for a moment, and the pulls it away. Gwen sits on Merlin’s other side, wringing her hands. The cameras roll and Prue and Paul enter. Prue smiles like a kind but exasperated auntie. 

The discussion is surprisingly quick. Merlin wonders if the episode will feature one of the background trips to discover the history of kulich.

They slice into Merlin’s with a pleased smile. “Mm,” Prue says. “That texture is just right.”

“But this glaze was put on before it cooled all the way, so it’s run down the side too far.”

“Slightly messy.”

“But good flavour.”

Prue nods in agreement and they move on.

Lance comes last, and Gwen squeezes Merlin’s hand tight at the news. It just didn’t have the height it needed. Freya had the same problem, and she’s next. Gwaine forgot the raisins, somehow, and he’s next, followed by Isolde, who over-baked hers. Gwen’s is just under-baked, and she is next. Alice’s texture is slightly off, but her kulich is still tall and tidy, and it places in the middle.

“Next,” Paul says. “Everything about this one looks perfect and feels right, but the flavour is just not there. Whose is this?” Arthur raises his hand. “It needs… something.” Arthur nods, and Merlin hears him sigh.

“Next is this one.” Mithian raises her hand. “Mithian, it is just barely over-baked. If not for that crust, it would be prefect.” Mithian nods.

Paul walks over to Merlin’s kulich. “Whose is this?”

“That’s me.”

“Merlin, once again that flavour and the texture were just about perfect, but it looks a mess. Again.”

“I know.”

“Right. Next, this one.” Nimueh waves. “Nimueh, it would be top, but the fruit is unevenly distributed in the kulich.” She nods. “Which leaves this one.” Percy raises his hand. “Percy. What can I say? This is nearly perfect kulich. Well done.”

Gwaine loudly thumps Percy on the back, then laughs and pulls him into a tight hug. “A-ha! Well done!” Percy’s face is red and he grins like a madman.

The bus to the hotel is celebratory, and even Lance, Freya, and Isolde are jovial. Gwaine blasts music; this time it’s Blur, and Merlin taps his foot while Gwaine “sings” along with the chorus in an indecipherable shout.

This week, the hotel is serving beef and potatoes, and Merlin finds himself at the bar with an oversized mug and a full plate. Gwaine wraps an arm around him. “Oo, Merlin, this is nice. Is that cashmere?”

Merlin chuckles. “Actually yes.”

“It looks good. Brings out your eyes, you know. You’re looking very pretty today.”

“Oh, uh, I, well. Um.” Gwaine laughs and lets go. “Thanks.”

Merlin doesn’t linger in the bar, nor do the others. They eat and talk, and hug and part ways, as if everyone’s having an early night. Merlin goes up and leans against his bed. He looks in his duffel. The second jumper looks back. He also has a second pair of jeans, pants, socks, and pyjamas. His heart speeds. He runs his hand over the shirt. He unpacks the trousers and stares at them. He looks down at himself, shifting his weight. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then he undoes his trousers and shoves them off in an abrupt motion. He pulls on the pyjama bottoms and changes into an ancient football tee. He slides his key and change in his pocket and leaves before he can talk himself out of it.

The lift is slow. The corridor is empty, and the carpet is worn and slightly dingy. Merlin walks slowly. He stops outside the door and takes a breath. “This is stupid,” he whispers. “What are you doing?” He reaches out and twists the handle.

Arthur’s head immediately turns to find him.

“Merlin!” Mithian is with him. She smiles, sugary-sweet and beautiful.

“Um. Uh, hey.” The door swings back and crashes into him, pushing him forward. “Mmf.”

“This one is open.” Mithin points. Arthur’s brow furrows.

“I just remembered I brought… Uh… I’m going to…” Merlin gestures and spins around. He lets the door slam shut behind him, and the crash echoes down the empty hallway.

 

Arthur is the only person on the bus when Merlin gets on in the morning. Merlin walks down the aisle slowly and takes the seat two rows in front of him. He sits.

“You brought doubles?” Arthur’s voice is quiet.

“The shirt is dry clean, yeah.” He turns to look back at him.

Arthur is quiet for a moment. He nods a little. “Right.”

“It—they—were a gift. From my mum.”

“Oh.” He bites his lip. “So… panettone, huh?”

“What?”

“I was just… You said yesterday you like panettone.”

“I did?”

“In your interview. One of them.”

“Oh. I do. Like it. Yeah.”

“Have you been to Milan?”

“When I was a kid once.”

Arthur nods. Isolde arrives and he stays quiet until they arrive at Welford. “It would be a good trip, don’t you think?” Arthur asks before they get out. “Like Steven and Sophie. I mean, you know, it would be a good trip.”

“Uh, yeah,” Merlin agrees. Arthur doesn’t meet his eyes, he just nods and exits the bus.

“What was that?” Gwen asks.

“No idea.”

Gwen’s eyes narrow. “Hm,” she says. “Hmm.”

 

“Good morning, bakers, it is time for your bread showstoppers. This week, Paul and Prue would like you to create architecture-inspired bread,” Sandi says.

Noel nods. “Whether is the Taj Majal or the Eiffel Tower, the bread must be upright and centerpiece-worthy.”

“You have four hours to the rise to the challenge.”

“On your mark.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

Merlin starts with warm water and yeast. He measures flour and warms milk until it nearly melts a dollop of butter. He kneads and kneads. He’s already working on his second dough when they arrive to question him.

“This is my Panem et Circenses.”

Noel’s eyes go wide. “Bread and circuses? Is it a circus or…”

“The Coliseum.”

Noel grins with delight. “That’s brilliant. We can feed Paul to the lions.”

Paul looks sideways at Noel before responding. “Will there be tiny lions?”

“No, it’ll be in the current, ruined shape. No gladiators.”

“I think it’s so clever,” Prue interjects. “You’ll use two types of dough?”

“Yes, an olive-loaf for the outside, with a rye for the base and the inner, underground part.”

“You’ve had trouble with tidiness.” Paul stares him down. “How do you plan to keep this neat?”

“Like my plaited loaf. I like bread. A lot. I enjoy working the dough. As long as I stay calm, I think I can manage it.”

“It’s a lot of detail.” Paul is obviously skeptical.

“Well, I have four hours.”

“That’s a hint.” Noel puts his arm around Merlin. “I’ll get them out of your way, my magical friend, so you can cast your spells.”

“Thanks.”

While the dough proves, Merlin measures and sketches on parchment paper. Paul isn’t wrong: the structure requires a lot of pieces that will be woven together, then surrounded. He’s done it once, and it was a bit messy, but he has ideas to improve it.  He’ll bake it around a frame, which he slicks up. It could go terribly wrong, but if it’s right, the thing will be spectacular. He can barely believe it when his timer goes.

The olive dough is puffy and light. Perfect. He punches it down and turns it out and lets it rest before he shapes it. He looks up and sees Mithian back over at Arthur’s station. He looks down. _Let it rest_ , the thinks. He fights the urgent need to get back to work, keep moving. He looks up again. Arthur is checking his proving drawer. Gwen is splitting her dough. Alice is sipping tea. Isolde is wringing her hands. The timer seems to have slowed. Mithian says something and Arthur laughs. He leans his head back and Merlin watches his throat. He can’t stop staring at the man’s jawline. It’s so square. It looks rough with stubble, as if he slept in and didn’t have time to shave. It isn’t true because he was the first one out this morning. Maybe he just didn’t want to shave. Arthur turns, suddenly, as if he can feel Merlin staring. Merlin looks away. He starts to split his dough, timer be damned.

In many ways, the structure is a basic basket weave, but the pieces are spaced out and the vertical pieces must look continuous. He weaves, then smooths pieces into each other. It takes time and concentration and he’s starving by the time he puts it in the over and starts on the base. This part is much simpler, and he slides it in to bake and rushes to grab a bite from the catering stall.

A cup of tea is waiting for him when he returns. He looks around, but, once again, no one acknowledges it. He takes a sip. It is perfect. He smiles and sighs. His timer goes. The first part should be done. Heart racing, he cracks the oven door. Heat buffets his face, but it’s fine: the bake is even and he laughs with elation. He carefully slides out the first tray and closes it back. He’ll let it cool before removing the tins.

Merlin looks up again and finds Arthur looking back at his bread. He lifts his eyebrows and turns back to his own. His is still in the oven; Merlin doesn’t know what he has planned.

He sees that across from him, Freya has long, flat-looking waves she’s trying to stack. She’s nearly in tears. Merlin walks over while he waits. “What building is it?”

“The Guggenheim,” she says. “Bilbao.”

“Oh, of course. I thought it looked familiar.”

First she makes an annoyed face, but then she sees he’s being genuine, so she smiles. The tears look near the point of overflow, but she sniffs and blinks a few times. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Merlin pats her on the shoulder. “You can do this.” Her eyes are still sad.

The second piece is finished just as he’s ready to remove the first tin. He slides it free and inspects the crust. It looks perfect, but he can’t know what’s inside. He sets it on a cooling rack and waves a baking sheet over it for what feels like ages. His arms ache, but he keeps moving. When it seems he can’t continue, he pulls out his tray and set the base on it, in the center. Then he gingerly lifts the top structure and set it around the base, breathing steadily out his mouth.

It looks simple. He wonders if he should have brought something for garnish, or if it’s enough. _Too late now_ , he thinks, and it’s true. The countdown begins, and before he knows it, he’s placing his bread at the end of his workstation and stepping away. Then he’s hugging a weeping Freya, whose museum is a precarious stack, completely unrecognizable in final form.

 

“Hopefully it doesn’t collapse,” Merlin tells Vivienne. He’s right outside the tent this time, and he urgently feels he’s drank too much tea.

“Did it go as you planned?”

“Surprisingly, yes. It actually went better than the practice.”

“So you’re feeling good about the week. Do you think you’re in the running for Star Baker?”

Merlin chuckles. “Let’s just take one thing at a time, yeah?”

“That is probably wise.” She motions for the camera to stop recording. “I’m happy to see this week going better, Merlin.” Her eyes sweep the area. “And I’m not the only one.”

“Oh. Well, me too. Thanks.” He suppresses a shudder as he thinks about the week before. He pushes the thought aside. He wonders who the others are.

“Anyway, onward and upward, as they say. Good luck!”

Gwaine has created a dill-flavoured loaf in the shape of The Gherkin. It’s a bit flat on one side, and Merlin thinks that is good because there’s a definite chance the whole thing looks like a great big, pickle-flavoured cock. The scoring distinguishes the shape, and the taste is decent, so Paul and Prue share a good-natured laugh and move on.

Gwen has built the Hagia Sophia in a series of Turkish-spiced domes. It’s a huge hit. “This perfectly captures the spirit of the challenge,” Prue declares, even as Paul criticizes the texture.

Arthur is next. He’s created Petra, in Jordan. It’s enormous and impressive, and Paul raves over the rich, nutty loaf.

“Nimueh, please bring you showstopper forward,” Sandi calls. There’s a collective sigh in the tent as all eyes go to Nimueh’s structure. She has shaped intricate designs with delicate strips of dough.

“This is art,” Prue says. It is. Nimueh has built St. Basil’s Cathedral with studding detail. It looks like gingerbread, but it isn’t; Merlin doesn’t know how she did it. The onion flavour works, Paul says, as does the tomato basil.

Merlin is horrified when he is called next. The walk to the front of the tent seems to have lengthened. He was proud of his work, but now he’s desperately self-conscious. He lets his eyes pass over the other bakers as he goes and they catch, for some reason, on Arthur, who is staring at him—not his bread. Arthur’s head bobs a tiny bit and he squints a little, and it means nothing objectively, yet Merlin knows he’s saying it’ll be fine. He’s got this. For some reason, Arthur believes in him. He doesn’t stop to think how he knows that is being telegraphed, or what that means, or even why it would matter, he just accepts that for some reason it does, and Merlin finds himself smiling, reset, as he stands at the front of the tent.

“This is a lot cleaner than I expected it to be,” Paul admits.

“And it’s so clear,” Prue adds. “Anyone looking at it immediately knows it’s the Coliseum.”

“Let’s look inside.” Paul saws away a piece of each part, nodding, lips pressed together. They each try it. “That olive… it works.”

“I agree,” Prue says. “It makes me want a nice martini.”

“Of course it does.” Paul shakes his head and everyone laughs. “Alright, thanks Merlin.”

Merlin exhales the breath he’s been holding and returns to his station. He knows the judging continues: there’s the Sydney Opera House, some German castle, and the Arc de Triomphe. Some are three-dimensional, and some are mostly flat. But Merlin is mostly alone in his head, anxious to know if this week truly is a fresh start, or if his disastrous Biscuit Week will affect the outcome this time around. Perhaps it was simply so terrible, they’ll say, “Too bad, Merlin, this is it.”

A few minutes later, he shares this fear with Gwen. “You’re mad,” she says. “Your bread has been too brilliant for that.”

“But they’ll probably send two home. That’s a higher chance.”

She just sighs and shakes her head. “That isn’t how it works.”

“Anything could happen.”

“Oh Merlin.”

Mithian stands close to them. “You did really well, Merlin,” she says. “The detail was extraordinary.” Her smile looks genuine and Merlin realizes he has absolutely no reason to not expect that, and it confuses him that he’s surprised.

“Thank you. I liked your opera house.”

Mithian’s smile is straight out of a toothpaste ad. Or maybe a makeup ad. It’s radiant. “You’re originally from Ealdor, right?”

“Yes, my mum’s still there.”

“I have family in Engerd.”

“Oh, nice.” He smiles. Mithian smiles back even broader.

“We used to go out for hunting parties a couple times a year. I just loved it. Beautiful country.”

“Er, yeah. It is.” For a brief, bitter moment, Merlin thinks _this_ is what Arthur meant they have in common. He thinks, _She probably looks fantastic in equestrienne gear_. He watches her walk away for her interview.

“She’s very kind,” Gwen says.

“She is,” Merlin agrees. He sighs. “She certainly is.”

 

The deliberation seems to take ages, but Merlin finally finds himself perched between Gwen and Percy. Percy is solid and warm and Merlin has to stop himself from pressing his face against the man’s arm. It’s bare, and Merlin can feel the heat radiating from it. Gwaine squeezes in on the other side and Arthur stands and watches everyone else sit before taking a spot between Gwaine and Freya. His brow is furrowed. Merlin wonders if he should try to reassure Arthur now, if that’s what they do, now, what they are to each other. His chest flutters. “Dumb,” he whispers to himself.

“What?” asks Gwen.

“Nothing. Just thinking.” They are nothing to each other. Arthur is simply nice, and Merlin is a fool.

 

“It has been a breathtaking week,” Sandi says. “I have the honour of announcing this week’s Star Baker. It’s this baker’s attention to detail that set them apart, resulting in a saintly week of success. Nimueh, you are Star Baker. Congratulations!”

Noel nods. “Bakers. As you know, last week everyone stayed, and as wonderful as it was, it meant this week we have to send two bakers home.” He sighs. “I’m so sad to say this week we are losing both Freya… and Isolde.” They’re both nodding. Tears cascade down Freya’s face, and they are both engulfed in a swarm of hugs.

Merlin thinks he feels even worse. _It should be me,_ he thinks. He looks across the group and sees a grim look mirrored on Arthur’s face. _It should be us_.

 

“I’m relieved.” Edric holds the camera, grinning. “I think we’re officially past it. And I have to move on.”

“Time to celebrate?”

“No, I just…” Merlin watches a bumblebee float by. He lets out a deep breath. “It’s just hard to see people go and think it should be you.”

“You can’t think that.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You had a better week.”

Merlin doesn’t know how to respond. He realizes he’s looking at the camera, so he looks at his feet. _New shoes_ , he thinks. “We’ll just see what happens next week.”

“Right. Thanks.” No one else says anything to him until they are dropped off back at the hotel. Everyone hugs.

“It’s okay,” Freya sniffles. “I knew it was me. I knew it all week.” Merlin thinks that couldn’t have set her up well, but he just nods and hugs her again. Isolde is planning a brief holiday in Snowdonia.

Merlin is halfway to the door before a hand pulls at his arm. “Hey.” He turns to find Arthur _not_ looking at him.

“Hey.”

“I was, uh, wondering…” Arthur squares his shoulders. “I mean, I presume you still don’t own a car.”

“Um.”

“So you’ll be needing a ride.”

Merlin narrows his eyes. He blinks a few times.

“Just to the station. Unless of course you want me to drive you home because I’m going the same direction and then you won’t have to worry about waiting for the train or carrying your bags and it would be easier but the station is fine too because it’s on the way.”

Merlin forces himself to stuff his hands into his pockets. He feels his stomach lift into his chest. “Okay,” he says.

Arthur nods.

 

The car ride is quiet. Unbearably, horribly, overwhelmingly quiet, for at least the first five minutes. Five minutes feels like five years and Merlin sweats and squirms.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks.

“Fine.” He replies too quickly, and his voice is too loud. “Fine,” he repeats. “So—”

“So—” Arthur says at the same time. They glance at each other and Merlin is the first to crack a smile. “Go ahead,” Arthur prompts.

“I was just going to ask how you got into baking.”

“That is what I was going to ask you.”

Merlin laughs. “Okay. Well, for me it goes way back. I played outside a lot, in the woods and streams, as a kid. Pretending I was a wizard.” Arthur smiles and stays quiet. “I would mix up potions—whatever I could find—and try to share them with anyone unfortunate enough to be near. When I became too persuasive with some of my concoctions, I nearly poisoned Old Man Simmons. Mum decided I needed to make something real.”

“Old Man Simmons?”

Merlin nods.

Arthur is quiet for a moment. “I did that, too, you know.”

“Made potions?”

“No, I didn’t pretend to be you. I mean, I didn’t pretend to be Merlin. I pretended I was a knight.”

“Not a king?”

“God no. _King_ always made me think of my father. I wanted to slay monsters and rescue fair maidens.”

“Oh.” Merlin watches houses pass, out the window. “So baking?”

“When my mother got sick, she needed help. Then she was better, and it was just something for us to do together. And then she got sick again, worse, and…” His mouth twitches.

“How long has it been?”

“Nearly ten years.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” Merlin reaches his hand out to comfort him, but his arm is positioned awkwardly, so Merlin’s fingers find Arthur’s leg, instead. He looks down, and it takes a moment for his head to register that he’s touching Arthur’s thigh. The mood is completely wrong for the surge of energy that shifts from his chest to his gut, so he pulls his hand away. Instead, he looks out the windscreen and asks, “What was she like?”

 

Traffic is surprisingly light, and Arthur finds a spot outside Merlin’s building without trouble. He turns in his seat and looks up. “Nothing fancy,” Merlin says.

“It’s a good location.”

“That’s the idea. Thanks for the ride, again, Arthur.”

“You’re welcome, Merlin.” They look at each other, and Merlin undoes his seat belt with a noisy click. Arthur blinks. “I’ll just get your—”

“No, no, I got it. I appreciate it.” He slips outs and pulls his gear from the back. When he walks back to the front, Arthur has the window down. His mouth is opening and closing, and his brow is creased. “Don’t worry, they don’t mind you sitting here to drop off—it’s just parking.”

“What?”

“You look concerned.”

“Not about that.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll see you Friday. I mean Saturday.”

Arthur’s mouth presses closed and then he wets his lips. “Right. See you next weekend.”

Merlin stands there. He doesn't go inside until the car is out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you use milk and butter in an olive loaf? Probably not. You'd probably use water and olive oil. However, my thought is that it would be a more traditional white loaf with olive pieces mixed in. Would that flavor work irl? Maybe not. But Merlin is a sorcerer, so he can do it. A rustic loaf wouldn't work for the sculpture, so this is what we get.
> 
> Hey, thanks for reading this. I appreciate that, and I also appreciate how great this fandom is. Sometimes the world is really terrible--like the past week--so it's nice to remember it's not all bad.


	4. Dessert Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's week four of the Great British Bake Off, and that means it is Dessert Week!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... Hi! *waves*  
> I'm still alive! This just took AGES to write, and I finished my major project in the meantime. And I got a new job. And everything else going on.  
> The thing is, I really don't like a few things about this chapter because I'm not sure what I'm trying to get across is coming across, and I think it starts off a little stiff. That said, I can't keep tinkering with it or I'll go crazy. And it's already taken too long. So, here you go!

“I dunno, mate. I think you need another go,” Will says and pushes more meringue and cream into his mouth. He continue speaking, despite the overload. “Ifs no’ qui—Oh, sorry. ‘s no’ ‘ere.”

“You have cream on your chin.” Merlin looks down. Will has also managed to spit pieces of meringue across the kitchen bar, to his apron. Will reaches across, snags a piece with his middle finger, and pops it in his mouth. “That is disgusting.”

“Mmm. Sure you don’t want to try another?” Will spoons the last bite and inhales it. “I think the, uh, texture is off.”

“Really? But really.”

“No, Merlin, obviously it is good. Great.”

“Okay but, critically. Can you think of anything to criticize?”

“No.”

“Well. Okay.” Merlin sighs in relief. “Okay. Then I’m ready.”

“Of course you are. You’re going to bloody win this thing. And then you’re going to set me up with some hot baker.”

“That is never going to happen.”

“Come on, Merlin, throw me a bone here.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Throw you a bone?”

“It’s an expression.”

“Sure. I’m not throwing you anything.”

“That’s cold.”

“Tough.”

“Fine.” Will pauses. “You sure you don’t want to make one more?”

 

The train ride takes ages. Merlin picks at his cuticles, then pushes at the edge of the plaster over his cut. It is mostly healed, but the skin is still angry and red by the wound. Fortunately, he hasn’t needed to use that hand much over the past week. He relied on his mixer, mostly. The rest time has sped the recovery, and while it looks bad, he barely feels it.

A taxi waits at the station, and Merlin gestures to the driver, who gets out and opens the boot. The car smells vaguely of vinegar and air freshener, an unpleasant combination. Merlin lifts his duffel and places it in the sour compartment. He slides into the back and gives the address to the cabbie, who releases the handbrake. Merlin unlocks his phone, thinking maybe he’ll download a new game, and then the driver mashes the brake. Merlin jolts forward and smashes his face into the headrest in front of him. The driver yells a long stream of profanity and shakes his fist. A car has stopped in front of the cab. The window rolls down and Gwen, pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, pokes her head out. “Merlin! Ride with us!” she yells.

“Um,” Merlin says, most articulately. “I, uh, sorry.” He grips the door handle. “Do you mind?”

“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me? Waste of my time! Waste!” The driver gestures at Gwen. “Gonna cause a wreck, and next time I may not hit the brake in time.”

“Um, I’m terribly sorry. Can you open the boot?”

“Fuckin’ kids,” he grumbles, but violently opens the door and marches to the rear of the car and flings open the hatch. Merlin turns his face from the waft of sour air and stream of curses, but takes his bag.

The car pulls up beside him as the driver slams the hatch closed. Lance jumps out and tugs Merlin’s bag from his hands. “Sorry, Merlin. We were trying to catch you before you took off, but couldn’t get across the carpark in time.” He places Merlin’s duffel on a stack of luggage in the back of his car, then opens the door for Merlin, like he’s being picked up on a date. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks.” Merlin takes in Gwen’s starry-eyed look as he slides into his seat and Lance shuts the door behind him. Gwen sighs. “You rode together?” Merlin asks.

Gwen nods happily. She watches Lance climb back in behind the wheel. He reaches over and squeezes her hand briefly before putting the car in gear. They roll forward, accelerate, and then Merlin is thrown forward again as Lance slams the brake. “What the—”

“Oof,” Merlin grunts.

“Is that…” Gwen points to the car that has cut them off. It’s a sleek, silver Land Rover, tearing away out of the carpark.

“Is that what?” Lance asks after a few deep breaths.

“I just thought I recognized… Never mind.” She shakes her head.

Merlin’s phone buzzes with a text. _U here?_ It’s from Edric. He taps a quick reply: _Not yet._ He stares at the screen. _U here?_

_U…_

Merlin sighs. He locks the screen. “How was your week?” he asks. Gwen chats merrily to the hotel.

The day is warm, and Merlin feels the sun at his neck as they walk to the door. This time, Lance opens it for Merlin and Gwen both. “Thanks” Gwen coos, and Merlin can’t suppress his own smile, which is probably quite daft looking, until his eyes sweep the lobby and find Arthur at the desk. He has two hot travel cups in front of him, and Merlin scans the room again, wondering who he rode with.

“Merlin,” Arthur says. He visibly swallows.

“Arthur.” Merlin nods.

“Oh, hi Gwen. Lance. Hello.” Arthur’s hand reaches up to scrub at the back of his neck in an awkward and somewhat sheepish gesture that plucks at a string somewhere in Merlin’s gut and seems to hum through his limbs. He nervously rubs his hands at his trousers as Arthur takes the key from the receptionist.

“Two-oh-four,” she says with a smile.

“Right. Thanks.” Arthur nods. He steps back and Merlin looks at Gwen, but she’s whispering something to Lance, lost in their own world. He shakes his head and steps forward.

“Merlin Emrys.”

The woman types his name into an ancient desktop and scrolls, then clicks. “A single?”

“Yes.”

She nods, then pulls a key from the rack behind her, types again, and clicks. “Two-oh-six.” She hands him the key. “Have a nice stay.”

“You too.” He cringes and feels his entire body prickle and heat. “I mean, thanks…” He turns, then realizes Arthur’s cups are still on the desk. “Oh.” He picks them each up. “Arthur, your—” Arthur’s look stops him. “What’s wrong?”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Huh? Nothing.”

“Why were you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like… I don’t know, never mind.” Merlin blinks a few times. The look has vanished now and he tries to recall it. “Your cups.”

“Right.” Arthur takes one and then looks down at his other hand, which rests on the handle of his suitcase. “Uh…”

“I can,” Merlin adjusts his duffel, “I can get this one if you’re going up. I mean because I’m going that way, and it sounds like we’re—”

“Sure.” Arthur opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. He stares at the cup in Merlin’s hand.

“I don’t have to,” Merlin says, holding it out.

“No, you can…” Arthur turns away, muttering under his breath. Merlin swallows and follows him to the stairs. “I—”

“Did you—” Merlin grins. “Go ahead.”

“No, you can.”

“I was just going to ask if you had a good week.”

Arthur blinks, as if the question is unexpected somehow, and Merlin’s stomach turns as he thinks, _Maybe he’s annoyed by small talk_. He tries to remember if that’s been the case before, of it this is a new development. Or worse: _Have I just never noticed?_ He tells himself to stop over-analyzing.  _I can't, though!_ “I did, yes,” Arthur responds, and for a moment Merlin can’t process it because he can’t remember the question. He feels himself start to sweat and adjusts his duffel. “How was yours?”

“Yes. I mean, good,” he says. Arthur stares at him, then smirks. He slides his key into his door, then pushes it open. Merlin shuffles past him to the next room. “Well, this is me.” The doors are perhaps a meter apart.

Arthur nods. “Yes. And me.” He gestures with his head as Merlin unlocks his own door.

“Oh, here’s your other drink.”

Arthur glances at the proffered cup as he pushes into his room. “Keep it,” he says.

The door closes with a noisy click. Merlin stares at it in silence, then hears a thud, as if something has thumped into it on the other side. He starts to call out and ask if Arthur is okay, then decides to refrain. He sips the cup, finds it is tea—slightly cooled but still excellent. He sets it on the bureau and drops his duffel. "Well that wasn't awkward at all," he says aloud. He crosses to the bed and tumbles onto it, face-first.

He realizes Arthur’s head will be mere inches away all night, just on the other side of the wall.

 

Edric meets him for dinner, despite Merlin’s hesitance. “Just a quick bite,” Edric says. “You have to eat something, right? And I know the area.” They meet at a quaint little place with a seasonal menu Merlin wishes he could relax and enjoy. Instead, his mind is everywhere else. Edric can tell, he knows. The silences stretch. They are not comfortable. “I’m sorry,” Merlin says. “I am hopelessly nervous. This just gets harder.”

“Harder than the biscuits?”

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” They share a smile, finally.

“I should apologize, really. You said you weren’t sure about going out tonight and I pressed you. I’ve just been…” He shrugs. “Maybe we should try for the end of the weekend. Sunday, after?”

Merlin feels that twist again. He takes a sip of his water. “I don’t think I can Sunday. I’ll need to get back, get ready for the work week.”

“But you have to eat.”

Merlin makes himself smile. “Just takeaway on Sundays, I’m afraid.” It isn’t true, but he chooses not to examine the lie too closely. He needs to think about baking.

The ride back to the inn is quiet, but less tense. The goodnight is sedate, and Merlin stands with his hands in his pockets as he watches Edric drive away.

In bed, Merlin stares at the ceiling and hears every creak of old wood and closing door in the place. He squeezes his eyes shut and wonders where the noises come from, each one, until his mind finally lets him rest.

 

“Ye-ah!” Gwaine pronounces the word with two syllables as he clomps onto the bus. He ruffles Merlin’s hair and throws himself into the seat behind him. “Let’s go!” He looks around. “Oh. Where’s the princess?”

Merlin watches Arthur emerge from the inn, harried, eyes shadowed. He rushes aboard and mumbles an apology, eyes skimming the group before settling on his feet. He slumps down on the front seat and the driver closes the door. “What’s going on?” Merlin whispers to Gwaine. He shrugs, brows furrowed.

“Dunno,” he whispers back. “But he can’t bake like that. We have to cheer him up.”

“ _We_ have to?”

Gwaine smirks. “Oh Merlin,” he says. “Yes. _We_.” The ride is subdued, as if Arthur’s mood has affected everyone—or no one slept. Merlin wonders if everyone else was too busy listening to nod off, then thinks no, they seemed fine before. Arthur has altered the whole morning.

Welford Park is anything but subdued. There are fresh blooms this week, and the air is warm and sweet. It’s early, and Merlin knows it’s likely to be hot. He chose a button-down and jeans for the weekend, and he rolls his sleeves as they walk to the tent, wondering if it is light enough. He tries not to watch Arthur, tells himself the man does not matter, but he knows it’s a lie. For some reason the dark mood has thrown everything off kilter and it needs to be righted.

Arthur is in the back row by himself this week, and Merlin is directly in front of him. Alice is across from Merlin, and Gwen is in front of him. Percy is across from Gwen, and Gwaine and Lance are next, with Mithian and Nimueh in the front. Only three people are gone, yet the group feels smaller. Merlin tells himself to relax, returns a few smiles, but the conversations are muted and tense. They file out, then back in, cameras rolling. Merlin forces a smile.

“Welcome,” calls Sandi, “to Dessert Week!” Noel spreads his fingers and grins in a welcoming gesture. “And what a sweet week this is bound to be.”

“Yes, the nine of you are here today to get your just desserts.” Noel rubs his hands together. Paul and Prue both smile. Merlin can feel Paul’s eyes measuring them, making predictions. He pushes aside a sense of foreboding.

“But now,” Sandi continues, “it’s time to lace up those ballet slippers and go en pointe for the Signature Challenge.”

“This week, you will be making your best pavlova.” Noel’s brow waggles.

“And like its namesake, it should be light, delicate—”

“And wearing tights.”

“You have two and a half hours. On your marks.”

“Get set!”

“Bake!”

Merlin smooths his apron and takes a deep breath. He takes out his ingredients and a mixture of bowls and utensils. “Focus,” he tells himself. A camera closes in on his hands as he cracks an egg. Shell shatters into the bowl. He bites back a curse and presses his lips closed. Very carefully, he picks pieces from the white and presses them onto a cloth. He cracks the next egg and separates it with no problem. The next one, however, also shatters. The camera lifts and takes in his sigh, head shake, and methodical removal of shell. He washes his hands before cracking the rest. “Breathe,” he whispers. “Breathe.” He picks up the next egg.

“Ah!” Arthur makes an exasperated noise behind him, and Merlin can’t help but turn. Yolk drips from a shell into his bowl. “Split,” he says, looks up at Merlin. Their eyes catch and for a moment, Merlin is frozen and breathless. Arthur blinks, and Merlin turns around and looks at his own bowl. His face feels hot. He looks up at the camera, and sees the woman holding it quirk an eyebrow. She opens her mouth to ask a questions, but the main camera crew interrupts. Prue, Paul, and Sandi follow.

“Hello Merlin,” Paul starts.

“Hi.” He is still breathless, and it’s obvious, so he cracks another egg.

“Tell us about your pavlova.” Prue’s voice is cheery, but her eyes are inquisitive behind the glasses.

“I’ve decided to go classic,” Merlin explains. “Passion fruit curd, kiwi, of course—”

“Naturally,” Sandi agrees.

“And strawberry.”

Prue smiles. “An iconic pavlova, then.”

“That is the idea.”

Paul nods. “I trust your flavours. Tell us about your presentation. How do you plan to keep it from being a mess?”

“Well, it’ll be three layers,” Merlin explains. “I should be able to pipe the cream and hold the fruit in place.”

Paul squints at him. “Let’s just hope you can keep that curd nice and tidy.”

“Best of luck,” Prue adds. Sandi claps him on the shoulder, and they walk away. Merlin looks over and sees Alice has already switched on her mixer. He looks at his timer and shakes his head. _Focus_ , he tells himself. He gets to work.

The meringue is smooth and bright as a summer cloud. Merlin lines his baking sheets with paper, draws circles, and spoons the meringue to form the base and middle layer. He pipes the rest in its circle and slides them into the oven. He looks at the woman filming him and says, “That’ll be just over an hour.”

Arthur is still piping. He has more layers, though they look smaller. They’ll be delicate. His work station is tidy, despite the egg-cracking frustration from earlier. “Are those… What are those?” Merlin asks.

“Pistachios.” Arthur looks at him as if he’s gone mad.

“Not _that_. The—Oh, they’re figs.”

“Oh. Yes, the figs.”

“Interesting.”

“Well some of us didn’t want to just do the traditional, _Mer_ lin.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a traditional—wait, no. This is not just traditional you, you prat. I’m making a passion fruit curd and, and anyway, there’s no need to be tetchy.”

“Tetchy? You’re the one criticizing my figs.”

“I said it was interesting!”

“Exactly!”

“I meant interesting, not bad!” Merlin realizes his voice is raised when Noel seems to appear beside him. “Sorry.”

“What’s happening?” asks Noel. He’s wearing patent leather boots and a billowy silk shirt.

Merlin opens and closes his mouth a few times. “Nothing. I’m sorry.” He turns away, catching Arthur’s pained expression as he does.

Noel cocks his head to the side and wraps an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “Well, my magician friend, I’ll let you work on casting your spells.” He snatches a strawberry from Merlin’s bowl and winks as he pops it in his mouth. Merlin tries to ignore the cameras and focuses on his curd.

 

Two and a half hours is not an ideal amount of time for this task. Meringue needs to cool before it’s stacked and decorated, and bakers can only do their best to let it happen at the right speed. As the hour mark passes, meringues begin to be pulled. Percy and Alice are both fanning theirs with baking trays as Merlin checks on his. He glances back and sees Arthur peering into his oven, then close it back. Their eyes catch again and Merlin looks away. He sets a timer for ten minutes and gulps down a bottle of water as he watches Gwen whip cream.

The meringues are ready when the timer goes. He’s still fanning them when Noel yells, “Bakers, you have one hour remaining!” Both Noel and Sandi seem to be giving him space.

“What’s wrong?” Gwen whispers. She’s twisting the end of a piping bag.

“Nothing. Is yours already cool?”

“No, I’m just anxious.” She frowns. “And I don’t believe you.”

“I just didn’t sleep well.”

“But I thought you went to bed early.”

“What? Why?”

“We knocked on your door for dinner, but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh. No, I went out, elsewhere. Sorry.”

“By yourself?” Merlin swallows hard beneath her gaze. “ _Oh_ , I see.” Her lips curve up and she lifts an eyebrow. “And?” Merlin shrugs. “Ah. Well, that’s disa—”

A loud clatter interrupts them. Merlin spins and sees that Arthur has managed to knock over half the contents of his station. Merlin takes a few steps over to help him right it, and Arthur mumbles a thanks without making eye contact.

The final half hour passes quickly. Merlin pipes in the curd and the cream in an effort to keep everything neat. He arranges the fruit like he’s doing an art project and for once, it looks like it may have worked. He hopes the oven has baked the meringue like his at home, and his stomach is in knots. He slides his stand to the end of his station and breathes, just as Sandi and Noel do the countdown.

They do a quick break before judging. A runner takes Merlin straight to Vivienne. “What happened in there?” she asks.

Merlin frowns. “What?”

“I’m told you were fighting with Arthur.”

“Fighting?”

“Yes. What happened?”

“We weren’t _fighting_. We were just…” He trails off, unsure exactly what they _were_ doing. “I think the morning started off a bit slow. Something just felt… odd. But we weren’t fighting. It had nothing to do with…” Merlin frowns. “I mean I wouldn’t feel _off_ because…” His brain misfires like TV static.

“Merlin?” Vivienne’s voice is gentle.

Merlin looks up. Arthur approaches slowly. He looks defeated, Merlin realizes. “Arthur,” he says. Gwaine’s words from earlier run through his mind. _Cheer him up_.

Arthur’s lips press into another tight smile. “Just a moment,” Vivienne tells him.

“And anyway,” Merlin lifts his voice. “I think we can all just be glad it’s not Biscuit Week. Or Royal Icing Week.” He watches Arthur process that and his lips split into a smile—a real smile.

“Lucky for your fingers,” Arthur drawls.

“Arthur!” Vivienne scolds. Merlin watches Arthur blush and look at his feet, but then his eyes find Merlin’s again.

 

“This looks… actually, quite neat. The layers, the fruit are tidy.” Paul lifts the knife. “Let’s see the inside.” He slides it in.

“That meringue sounds crisp,” Prue observes with a smile. Paul pulls out a piece and reveals the layers. Merlin exhales a big breath. “Lovely.” Prue smiles.

“And now the taste.” Paul attacks the piece with his fork, as does Prue. They chew. They swallow. “Quintessential.”

Prue nods. Her eyebrows lift, as they do when she’s pleased. “It really is. You have made the definitive pavlova here. That kiwi, too, just takes you straight to New Zealand.”

Paul is silent for a moment. He frowns. “But. I have to say, Merlin: I’m a little disappointed.”

“What? Why?”

“You had an opportunity here, to really try something unique. This is _your_ signature pavlova. And what you’ve given us is just a standard pavlova.”

Noel interrupts. “So you’re saying he made too perfect a pavlova?”

“I’m saying I’d like to see something outside the comfort zone. Different ingredients.”

“Well I disagree,” argues Prue. “I think you’ve elevated an iconic dish. Well done you.”

“Thank you.” Merlin slumps against his station and looks at Gwen. She managed a chocolate raspberry combination that was a massive success. She gives him a supportive smile and they both try to stay out of the shot at Arthur’s station.

“Honey, fig, _and_ pistachio. That’s a lot of unusual flavours for a pavlova.” Paul levels Arthur with his icy stare. Arthur just nods.

“This is just absolutely lovely, Arthur.” Prue looks at it in wonder. “It really captures the grace, the elegance of the pavlova.”

“You almost have an opera cake,” Paul says.

Arthur laughs. “Not quite.” He seems to hold his breath, though, as Paul cuts into it.

“It looks perfect.” Prue clasps her hands together.

Paul takes a bite. Prue takes a bite. They chew. Merlin sees Paul’s fingers twitch, then form a fist. He lifts his hand an inch and Merlin holds his breath. Then he drops it. Merlin’s chest sinks as he sighs. “Arthur, this is… It’s _almost_ perfect.” Noel snatches a bite. “It’s visually stunning and you’ve gone outside the box with your flavour combination. But it’s just missing… something. I’d like to see another piece—some sort of sharpness that could get the most from that honey and fig. The pistachio isn’t it.”

“Ginger root,” Noel says in a matter-of-fact voice. Paul and Prue stare at him. “You need ginger for a fig.” Arthur’s mouth drops open.

Prue adjusts her glasses. “Well, I disagree again. I think this would be the perfect conclusion to a meal and look a treat as the centerpiece.”

They end with Alice’s cherry-almond pavlova, which features layers of fluffy pink cream. There are no handshakes, but the mood has lifted. “Nice job,” Gwaine whispers after. He ignores Merlin’s quizzical look.

Merlin does a quick debrief with a camera operator he doesn’t really know. Yes, it went well. No, he isn’t concerned about Paul’s criticism. It’s too early for lunch, so he finds himself at the tea station. Merlin likes the cheery yellow mug he pulls from the rack. A bright scarlet partner is revealed behind it, and he takes it down without thinking. By the time his head catches up, his hands have already dropped a teabag into each. He bites his lip, looks around at the distracted runners, and pours hot water.

The water is just down from a boil, and the tea blooms instantly, releasing a rich aroma as it darkens. Merlin reaches out for the bag, then stops. He rolls his eyes, then takes out his phone and sets a timer to four minutes. He paces as he waits.

When the timer goes, Merlin pulls the bags and tosses them. He adds a taste of sugar and a dash of milk, then stands there a moment, contemplating the creamy brown. He picks up both mugs, crosses over to his station, sets his yellow mug down, and places the red on Arthur’s work top. His eyes scan the tent. No one pays him any attention; Percy’s station is being wiped down. He tells himself his pounding heart is ridiculous. _There’s no reason for it_ , he thinks. Then he takes the yellow mug and hightails it out of the tent.

 

“Bakers, now it is time for this week’s technical challenge.” Sandi smiles, making eye contact with each of them.

Noel nods. “This week the challenge comes from our queen of sweet, Prue.”

“Prue, do you have any advice for our bakers?”

Prue seems to look straight at Merlin as she says, “Trust yourself and trust me, and you’ll do fine.”

“Not cryptic at all,” Sandi muses. She rubs her hands together. “Now, off with the both of you.” Paul seems to squint at them as they turn to leave.

Noel watches them go, and then turns back to the bakers. “Right, this week you will be each be making a cherry cheesecake.”

“Yes, it will be one cheesecake, on a biscuit crust, with a cherry swirl, and it should be perfectly set and chilled.”

“You have _three hours_ ,” Noel tells them. “On your mark.”

“Get set!”

“Bake!”

Merlin pulls off the gingham cloth and reveals a mass of cherries, crème fraîche, and cream cheese, plus a load of other, basic ingredients. He picks up and scans the recipe as the camera pulls close. “Step one,” he reads aloud, “Make shortbread biscuits.” He looks up and takes in Gwen’s bewildered look. “Trust yourself, star biscuit-baker.” Gwen nods and takes out a bowl. Merlin does the same.

The rest of the recipe is similarly light on instruction. Stone two-thirds of the cherries and make into a syrup. Bake, then let set in oven. Chill. Merlin purses his lips. _To bain-marie or not bain-marie_. He shrugs to himself and gets started.

“Shortbread,” he tells Anne, the camera woman, “is just butter, sugar, and flour. Though my mum always added just a tiny pinch of salt.” He drops a dash of salt into the bowl and starts to cream the butter. He looks over and sees Alice add a few more ingredients to her bowl. He starts to look at his spices and then stops. _Trust yourself. Okay._ He folds in the flour, then shapes it into a ball and pops it into the freezer for a few minutes. While it cools, he stones the cherries. It’s a somewhat fiddly process, but he manages the job quickly.

The shortbread rolls nicely, and he scores it before baking, even though he isn’t really making biscuits. “Best not risk doing anything different,” he tells Anne. While it bakes, he purees the cherries, then adds sugar. He puts the mixture on to boil, and by the time it’s a thick syrup, the biscuits are ready to remove. He switches off the cooktop, moves the saucepan, and pulls out the shortbread. It looks perfect and Merlin lets himself breath.

Noel has appeared beside him. “Merlin, did you manage to make biscuits without eviscerating yourself?”

“I—maybe.” Merlin lets out a nervous laugh. “Better not say anything.”

“True.” Noel mimes zipping his lips and pocketing the key.

“What’s that?” asks Sandi.

“Mm-mmm-m-mm-m.” Noel shrugs.

“I see.” Sandi nods, sagely. “Very well.”

Merlin scans back over the recipe and tries to think. He needs to crumb the biscuits, then bake them into a crust, add the filling, and then bake it again. He puts the syrup in the refrigerator and sets the biscuits on the cooling rack. He decides to go ahead with the filling. Cream cheese, crème fraiche, cornflour, eggs, sugar, vanilla, and orange zest. He uses the stand mixer to create a thick, smooth blend. The biscuits are still a bit warm, but he knows it’s going to be in the oven at least an hour, so he leaves the filling and goes to work on the crust.

As Merlin breaks up the biscuits and adds them to his food processor, he lets himself peek back. Arthur looks up and catches his gaze. The red mug is sitting on his station, and Merlin struggles to maintain a neutral expression. Arthur’s face is streaked with flour and his apron is smeared with cherry juice. He switches on his stand mixer and drops in a clump of cream cheese. Merlin turns back to his food processor and grinds his biscuits.

The biscuit crust is a combination of shortbread, butter, and golden syrup. Merlin prepares a spring form tin, then mashes the mixture into the base. It bakes just enough to set, and then he pours half the cheesecake mixture onto it. The cherry syrup is next. He pours a glob of syrupy puree onto the cream and tops that with the rest of the mixture. He swirls the cherry through to marble it, and then stares at the result. Anne’s camera pans from the cheesecake to his face. “It doesn’t say bain-marie.” He looks around the tent. Lance is adding water to his bottom tray. So is Percy. “I’m just going to do it.” He wraps the spring form in oversized foil and places it in the larger tray. “I don’t want it to crack.”

“Oh god.” Gwen clutches her head in her hands.

“What?”

“I put all the cherry puree in my cheesecake. I didn’t reserve any for the top.”

“Just make more.” Merlin gestures to the remaining cherries. “It’s all you can do at this point.”

Gwen nods and turns to start working to stone the rest of her cherries. “Oh god,” she mutters again. “What a disaster.”

Merlin sets his timer and then assesses his progress. The syrup-puree is back in the refrigerator. The cheesecake is baking. The remaining cherries are set out to dress the thing. The recipe calls for them to be placed on the top, just as they are, then dusted with icing sugar. He has about an hour of time to kill, and he should probably get lunch. “Do you want help?” he asks Gwen. She looks over her shoulder at him and sees his organized space. She nods. “Okay, good.” He gets to work.

Merlin would like to leave the cheesecake in the oven to cool slowly, but there’s no time. “Bakers,” Sandi yells.

“You have,” Noel shouts.

“One!”

“Hour!”

Merlin fans his cheesecake, jaw clenched. “Don’t crack,” he whispers. “Don’t you dare crack.” It isn’t ideal, but he puts it in the refrigerator.

Arthur slides his in beside it. “Does it help, then, talking to it?”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Arthur’s lips curve up, and Merlin watches, considering the colour. They’re pink, and maybe a little stained. “Have you been eating your cherries?”

Arthur’s tongue swipes at his bottom lip and Merlin looks up into his eyes. His breath catches in his throat as the rest of the tent dims and fades.

“Coming through!” Gwaine reaches between them and pulls the door open. He places his cheesecake on the bottom shelf, then straightens up and looks at each of them in turn. “Now you’ve got it.” He slaps Merlin on the shoulder and winks.

Merlin brushes his hands on his apron and watches Gwaine saunter back across the tent to Percy, who he wraps an arm around. Merlin feels, rather than sees, Arthur walk away.

 

“I don’t think it will be cool enough.” Merlin frowns at Vivienne.

“You finished, though.”

“I did. I’m happy I was able to dress it and chill it.” He topped it with crème fraiche and the rest of the cherry syrup, then dotted the circumference with the whole cherries. He had it in the freezer for the final fifteen minutes. “Mine didn’t crack, which is really a minor miracle.”

“And you really seem to misunderstand the competition part of this, Merlin.”

“How?”

“You helped someone again. This time it was Gwen.” She lifts an arm in a questioning gesture.

“Oh, well, I think anyone else would probably do the same…”

“No, actually, Merlin, they did not do the same.”

“Oh.”

“Anything you’d like to say about that?”

Merlin just shakes his head.

The stools are already waiting when Merlin wanders back into the tent. He ignored lunch completely, and now his stomach rumbles as he sits near the middle of the bunch. Lance sits down two stools away from him, as if they’ve settled into a pattern where Gwen is bound to be in the middle. “That didn’t seem too bad,” Lance says.

“Which means they’ll expect perfection.” Merlin looks up as he says the last word and sees Arthur enter the tent. His golden hair is illuminated and his eyes are bright, and Merlin swallows. He forces his eyes back to Lance before Arthur can notice him staring, and the expression he meets is contemplative. Before he can decipher it, the rest of the bakers pour into the tent.

Gwen, as if on cue, perches between them. “I am absolutely famished,” she says, leaning into Merlin’s side.

He wraps an arm around her. “Me too.”

“It’s going to be an early day, though,” Lance observes.

“We should go out together.” They all turn. Mithian has slid in beside Merlin. Her eyes scan the group. “Some place in Newbury.”

“Is there any place in Newbury?” Gwen asks.

Gwaine leans in from the end of the row. “What kind of place?”

“To go out together.”

Gwaine’s face splits into a grin that is equal parts magnetic and terrifying. “I know a perfect place.”

 

Paul clasps his hands together and Prue smiles, looking pleased. “Well these certainly look right.”

Paul nods. “Let’s start over here.” Percy’s is first. “Good starburst pattern on the top, although...” he slides the knife into it. “The cherry isn’t very syrupy; it’s more of a basic puree. It needed to cook down for longer.” He slides out a piece. “But the swirl looks good.” They each take a bite.

“Not quite cooled.” Prue sets down her fork. “Timing.”

“And with three hours, we’d really like to see this perfect.” They share a look.

“But the texture is right, and that biscuit crust is very well done.”

“Moving on.” Paul’s head cocks to the side as he looks at the next one. Gwen clutches Merlin’s hand.

“It’s _very_ cherry.” Prue smiles.

“Too cherry. The cheesecake is nearly pink. I think they may have mis-measured the swirl.” He cuts it. “But the syrup is perfect on the top.” He slides out a piece. “You can see how the excess cherry has messed with the texture. A cheesecake should be that smooth, rich custard, but the extra syrup here has competed with that.” They taste it.

“The flavour’s good.”

“But the texture.”

“It’s a shame.” Gwen inhales sharply at this pronouncement. Merlin rubs her hand.

Mithian’s is next, and she clutches Merlin’s other hand as Paul praises the texture and Prue says the cherry is too tart. Merlin is after hers. “Looks nice; good starburst.” Paul slices into it. “Excellent swirl.” They taste it.

Prue lowers her fork as she chews. “Wonderful.”

Paul releases a small chuckle. “It really is.”

Gwaine’s has cracked. “Tried to cool this down too fast.” Lance did the same thing. Arthur’s looks perfect, but, “The crust is…”

“I think the biscuit may have been overdone.” Prue pokes at it. “But the cheesecake itself, I think, is the best tasting.”

Nimueh and Alice remain. Alice left off the remaining crème fraiche and Nimueh’s is still a bit warm. The judges confer.

Gwen comes last. She nods and accepts it. Next is Alice, and then Lance. Arthur places sixth. Gwaine is fifth, and then Percy. “In third place,” Paul points. “Whose is this?”

“Mine.” Nimueh raises her hand.

“Better timing next time,” Paul says. She nods.

Mithian squeezes Merlin’s hand again. They look at each other, and she _really is_ nice. He squeezes back.

“Second place is this one.” Prue points.

Mithian waves and Merlin’s jaw drops. Paul nods. “Mithian, it was nearly perfect. And that leaves…” Merlin raises his hand. “Merlin. Another success. Well done.” Hands thump his back and Gwaine squeezes his shoulder in congratulations.

“That turned out well,” Vivinne says with a smile.

“I tried to help Gwen and she came last.”

“Not because of you, though.”

“Last time I helped someone, they came first.”

“This time you came first.”

“I did not expect to be first. I was afraid mine wouldn’t have cooled, but somehow it did.” He shrugs. “Luck, really.”

Edric catches him on the way to the bus. “I was wondering if you have plans.” Merlin stops. Mithian passes them on the path, and then Arthur, who gives Edric a rather critical glare.

“Sorry.” Merlin pushes Edric aside so they aren’t in the path. Arthur just presses his lips together and walks on. Merlin meets Edric’s eyes. “I do, actually. We bakers are going out.”

“Oh really? Maybe—”

“I’m not sure where. Gwaine has it planned.”

“Oh.” Edric nods. “Well, let me know if anything changes and you want to…”

Merlin smiles. “I will. Definitely.” He lets himself relax into the feeling of being wanted.

 

An hour later, Merlin is wedged into a corner booth at a pub called The Rising Sun. The bartender greeted Gwaine by name and brought them baskets and baskets of chips. It’s very brown and cozy, and incongruously upbeat music pounds steadily from the sound system. Gwaine has challenged Gwen to a game of darts and she is annihilating him. Alice and Mithian are pressed against Merlin on either side. The food is satisfying in that way greasy pub food can be. Merlin takes a deep swig of his pint, which is hoppy and bitter in the best way.

“Ahh,” Gwaine groans. “I quit! You are diabolical!”

Gwen laughs. “Who’s my next victim?”

“I haven’t played in ages,” Alice says, pushing aside her drink.

“You’re up!” Gwaine bows a little and gestures. Arthur slides out of the booth to let Alice out, then sits. He slides across the bench to Merlin to make room for Gwaine, but Gwaine wanders off with a little eyebrow waggle Merlin isn’t sure the recipient of. Arthur keeps the spot free anyway, and Merlin is conscious of their arms so close together he can feel the warmth. He picks up his pint with his left and leaves his right resting on his thigh. His legs are tense. Arthur reaches across the table for the chips, and as soon as he does, his leg shifts and presses against Merlin’s. “Nice job this morning,” he says. He’s looking at Mithian, and Merlin just breathes. He tries to relax. It’s very hot in the pub.

“Thank you,” she responds with a blush. “You did well, also.”

“Thanks.” Arthur takes a drink. “I was wondering, Mithian, about your name. It’s unusual.”

“You mean I’m not named for a knight of the round table.”

“To be fair, neither is Merlin.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “To be fair, neither are you.”

“No, I’m named for a king.”

Merlin snorts and rolls his eyes again. “Typical.”

“Typical?” Merlin just shakes his head. Arthur gives him an once-over. “Meanwhile, _Mer_ lin, I imagine you were brought up on some isolated Welsh hippie commune with friends named Moonbeam and Peaches.”

“Moonbeam? You think I grew up in a Neil Gaiman novel?” He takes another drink. “Mum’s an academic, not a hippie. What’s your family’s excuse? Egotism?”

“It’s not _egotism_ , it’s tradition.” Arthur’s cheeks are pink and he scratches at the tabletop. “Of course, I’ve pretty much ended that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Because you aren’t in politics?”

“That’s part of it.”

“But you could. You studied law, right?”

“But I have no interest in politics.”

“What is your day job, anyway?” Merlin realizes they haven’t ever spoken of it in detail.

“I’m head of pro bono work for the De Bois Group.”

“And you still have time to bake?”

“I make time. What about you? Are you in the family business?”

“No, no. I just work in a shop.”

“So you read business, then?”

“Science, actually. Was planning to do medical school.”

“But?”

“Well, you saw what happened when I cut myself.”

Arthur laughs, then: a deep, throaty rumble that prompts Merlin to take another sip. At this rate, he’s going to need another glass, and that seems like a bad idea. “So what kind of shop is it?”

“Games.”

Arthur laughs again. “You went from medicine to toys?”

“It’s not a toy shop, it’s a game shop.”

“Like Candyland?”

“Well, yes, but also tabletop RPGs, all types of strategy games, and some figurines, gifts, hobby supplies…”

“You’re a nerd.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “We’re on a baking show. We’re all nerds. Or mad.”

“I’ve never done any of that. Gaming. I mean, I’ve done video games. FIFA.”

“Not even at university?”

“Too busy working my way through, and then internships.”

“But surely you had some friends that made you stay out too late a few times.”

“Well… I’ve always… It’s just that a lot of people hear my name and think I’m going to be like my father or, you know, Jacob Rees-Mogg.”

“Oh god.”

“Exactly. So they aren’t too keen to invite me ‘round for drinks.” He scratches some more at the table. “Or they’re disappointed I’m _not_ like them. Safer to just… not.” He looks at Merlin, who tries to keep his face from showing shock or worse, pity. “It’s not that bad. I mean, I have family.” Arthur takes a long drink, and Merlin watches him swallow. His lips are wet when he sets the glass down.

“And you bake.”

“And I bake.” He grins, and it’s contagious. “I wonder…” Arthur stops.

Merlin looks up, too, and realizes they are alone in the booth. Most of the group is at the dartboard or billiard table. “Oh.” Merlin is suddenly reminded how close they are sitting, how unnecessary it is in the otherwise-empty booth.

“I need to do my laundry,” Arthur says. His eyes don’t quite meet Merlin’s.

“Me too.” Merlin’s lips feel dry and he wets them with his tongue. Arthur releases a little breath that may be amused, Merlin thinks, or something else. _Oh god, am I being clingy?_ “I mean, sometime tonight, that is. I’m not saying—”

“What?”

“I mean, I don’t have to, with you, I’m not like, expecting to use your laundry soap again or anything.” He tries to nudge Arthur in a teasing, good-humoured way, but it’s distracting to feel Arthur’s warmth against his arm.

“Well, if you did want to make an early night of it, I drove myself here and you’re welcome to ride back.” He finishes off his drink ad moves to get out his wallet.

Merlin’s heart pounds. _Calm down,_ he thinks. _It doesn’t mean anything._ He thinks, _The more time I spend with him, the more I’m going to like him, and that’s just torture_. But then he remembers they could, any of them, be out tomorrow. “That’d be great.”

 

Soft music plays on the ride. “You know, Lance got cut off by someone in a car just like yours yesterday.” Merlin runs his hand over the door panel. Arthur doesn’t say anything. “He and Gwen picked me up at the station.”

“They seem to be quite close already.”

“Funny, isn’t it? Lancelot and Guinevere.” Merlin chuckles.

“I wonder how much is subconscious pairing off because of the name thing.”

“None. I saw her when she first met him. And vice versa. They didn’t even know each other’s names. It was like a lightning strike.”

“He wasn’t blocking the path on the way in, then?”

Merlin tries to think of a response to that and fails. Arthur parks and they walk in together. Merlin follows Arthur up the stairs and each step feels wickedly intimate. “I’ll just be a minute.” He closes himself in his room and leans against the door. His reflection looks back at him from a wall mirror and it’s flushed, breathless. “Get it together,” he whispers. “Don’t make an arse of yourself.” He strips and pulls on the butter-soft, grey pyjama bottoms he packed, plus a plain white t-shirt.

Arthur is waiting in the corridor. He’s in athletic shorts and an Arsenal shift. “Ready?” Merlin nods. They take the lift down, silent. Arthur doesn’t look at him. When they reach the laundry room, he holds the door open for Merlin. “We can just do it together, you know. ‘s not like it makes a full load.”

“You get the wash and I’ll get the dry?”

“Yes.” Arthur flips open the washing machine and they toss everything in. “My mum would be outraged. Jeans and socks all together like this.”

“Mine too.”

“Well I won’t tell.” Arthur finally meets Merlin’s gaze with a sly little smile.

“I wonder if it’s always like that.”

“What, us?” Blue eyes, soft smile.

Merlin swallows. “I mean the group. The camaraderie.”

“They are unusual circumstances. But it does feel like a family. Mostly. Nimueh’s a bit… standoffish.”

“I’ve noticed that. She’s good, though.”

“Very. So are you.”

Merlin bites back a smile. “So are you.” He leans back against a dryer. Arthur’s looking at him, but not his face. He wonders if his bottoms are too thin; they _are_ rather worn. “Are you staying down here?”

“Planning on it, if you, um…” Arthur trails off.

“I think I’ll stay to, you know, switch it out when it’s done.”

“Yeah, well I copied the Comic Relief episodes onto my phone in case you—in case I needed to pass some time. If you…”

“That’d be great.”

Arthur’s smile is so bright, it aches.

 

Merlin’s stomach hurts from laughing as they fold the clothes. Arthur’s arm keeps brushing against his. “This is much better than doing laundry alone.” Arthur’s voice is soft. Merlin just nods and they finish in silence. Arthur leads the way back up to the rooms. It isn’t really late, but the day has been long. Merlin feels equal parts wired and exhausted. They don’t speak until they reach their doors. Arthur lets out a deep breath. “Well then.”

“Thank you for… keeping me company.” Merlin watches Arthur’s mouth curve up into a smile. _Stop staring at his lips_.

“I’m happy to,” Arthur replies. “Any time.”

“Next time I have laundry.”

“Absolutely.” Arthur’s voice is unnervingly serious and for a moment, Merlin’s heart seems to stop. He chokes out an awkward little laugh, which Arthur echoes, somewhat stiff. _Get it together for fuck’s sake. He’s just being nice_.

“Well, thanks.” Merlin twists his door handle.

“You already said that.”

“Right. Sorry. I’ll just…” He motions with his head toward the door, and he feels his temple come dangerously close to the wood. “Oh, I nearly knocked myself… uh, I’m gonna…”

Arthur watches him, face masked. “Good night, Merlin,” he says.

“Good night.” The door opens, and then closes behind him with a soft click. “I am such an idiot,” Merlin whispers. He groans, and then throws himself on the bed.

 

The morning is hot and the air is thick by seven. The bakers, sleepy and rumpled, trod across Welford Park to the tent. Merlin ties on his apron and forces himself to keep his eyes forward. Arthur’s timeline somehow matched his this morning, and they met in the quiet corridor, hair still damp from the shower. “I think I need a coffee,” Arthur said with a husky voice, so they stopped for one in the lobby. “You sleep well?” Arthur had asked.

“Not as well as you.”

“What?”

“You snore,” Merlin teased, without thinking.

“I do not! I—” Arthur stopped, eyes tracking across Merlin’s face.

Merlin felt his skin heat. “The walls are… thin.”

Now Merlin manages to keep his eyes forward and thoughts on the task ahead, not the mental image of a soft, sleeping Arthur. _Showstopper_ , he thinks. _Here we go._

“Good morning bakers!” Sandi’s grin is bright. “Welcome back for your showstopper challenge!”

“Today, Paul and Prue would like you to make that inevitable dessert: the trifle.”

“But not just any trifle.”

“Oh no,” Noel agrees. “This trifle should be contained in a chocolate collar.”

“Mm, my favourite kind of collar.”

“It should contain custard, mousse, or jelly—it’s really up to you.”

“But our judges will of course expect some sort of baked element, such as a sponge.” Sandi looks at each of them. “You have three hours.”

“On your mark.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!” Sandi and Noel shout it together.

Merlin has decided to start with his sponge, and he immediately goes to work on a Génoise by lining a baking tin and melting butter. It’s hot, and it’s still early. Merlin already knows he has made a terrible choice. He peeks behind him. Arthur’s work station is piled, like yesterday, with cherries. Merlin smiles.

“I didn’t know they were already planning cherries,” Arthur tells him. “Or else I’d have done something different.”

“I’ve just realized there’s no way white chocolate will temper in this heat.”

“You planned white chocolate? Didn’t you read the forecast?”

“I was planning for flavour, not weather!”

Arthur shakes his head. “You really ought to know better.”

“I know.” Merlin puts water in a saucepan to simmer, then sifts his flour and cornflour. Above the water, he whisks together eggs, salt, and sugar. When it’s hot, he transfers it to his stand mixer, which he lets do the hard work. When that is whipped, he folds in the flour. He has spooned a dollop of batter into another bowl when Paul and Prue arrive with Noel. Noel is already laughing. “Looks like a mad scientist’s shop over here.” Merlin realizes he has already used nearly a dozen bowls, tins, pans, and utensils.

“Hard at work.” Prue smiles in approval.

“I am.” Merlin whisks the melted butter into his dollop of batter.

“What are you doing?” asks Paul.

“Mixing the butter with some cake batter, and then I’ll fold this into the rest.”

“For a Génoise sponge?”

“Yes.” Merlin continues to work as they watch.

Paul’s eyes narrow. “Interesting method. So tell us about your trifle.

“I am making a berry and amaretto trifle with white chocolate.”

“Is this your amaretto?” Prue asks, picking up a small bottle.

“It is, yes.”

“May I?”

“Of course.”

Prue undoes the cap and sniffs. “Mmm. Delicious.”

Noel leans close. “Merlin, are you planning to bribe Prue with a little extra?”

“I should.” Merlin picks up his mixing bowl.

“We should let you crack on,” Prue says.

“Good luck,” Paul adds.

“Thank you.”

Gwen is making choux buns instead of sponge, and she is wiping her brow as they finish making their rounds. Once again, Merlin’s chest feels hollow and shrunk. He pictures the melted chocolate basket on Steven’s rainbow meringue balloon. He turns, then jumps. “Christ!”

“No, just me,” Arthur deadpans. “Sorry. I was just going to, uh, apologize. I didn’t mean to be harsh about the white chocolate. Or to sneak up on you.”

“Thank you. It’s okay. And I think the cherry will be fine, too. It isn’t cheesecake.”

“Well there will be no biscuit involved today.”

“We can all be relieved, then.” Merlin looks over again. “Kirsch and dark chocolate?”

“Yeah.” Arthur is standing far too close in the hot tent. His shirt is cut low again. He's wearing that ring on the chain.

“Sounds… decadent.” Merlin’s voice is low and rough, and he swallows hard. His eyes flit up to Arthur’s.

Arthur stares back at him for a moment, then turns and walks away.

Merlin lets out a deep breath. When he looks back up, Noel and Sandi are smiling at him from across the tent.

 

Merlin can make raspberry jam in his sleep, and he tackles that while his sponge bakes. He makes the crème pâtissière as it cools. He isn’t doing a jelly layer, but time will still be cut close, and there is no possible way to relax. He sweats, scratches his neck, and then realizes he’s scalded the milk. He dumps it and starts again.

“Bakers, you have one hour remaining,” Noel shouts.

“That means your time is two-thirds over,” Sandi adds.

“Two hours have been used up.”

“Leaving one more.”

Merlin chugs a bottle of water and gets out his chocolate. The white chocolate will be laid over a dark chocolate design. Rather than attempt anything freehand, Merlin has a pattern of interlocking circles, which he puts the dark chocolate down on first. It sets surprisingly fast, and he peels off the pattern. He pours the white chocolate over it. And then he tries to breathe. And he waits.

He waits longer.

He paces back and forth. And he waits.

“Would you stop it?” Merlin turns and sees Arthur glaring at him. “ _That_ is making _me_ nervous.”

“It isn’t setting up.”

“I fail to see how pacing will help. Go make tea or something.” Arthur squints. “Oh wait, you can’t wait on that, either. I forgot.”

“It’s too hot,” Merlin whines. He pushes back his hair.

“Then go and get another bottle of water,” Arthur huffs. “And get me one, too.”

Merlin nods. “Right.” He nods again. “Right.”

“ _Now,_ Merlin.”

“Okay.” He walks slowly to the catering tent. They have fans going, and it feels nice, just being away from the ovens. He takes two bottles of water and presses one to his forehead. He walks back through the tent and feels Arthur watching him. “Here.” He hands him the water.

“Mm hmm. Look.”

The chocolate has begun to set. Merlin sighs. He nods and smiles.

Merlin leaves the plastic on his collar while he builds the trifle. When five minutes remain, he tries to pull it off, and the chocolate folds. He pushes it back and tries to breathe. He decides to put it in the freezer.

 

“Bakers,” Sandi calls, “you have _one minute_ remaining!”

Merlin runs. He pulls the trifle from the freezer and jogs back to his station. He slides it onto the base. His hands shake. He pulls at the plastic. It sticks. Gwen and Arthur materialize beside him. “Is that it?” Gwen asks.

“Yeah, everything else is finished.” He tugs some more, and this time, it peels.

“Easy,” Arthur whispers. He pulls at the other end.

“Ten seconds!”

Merlin keeps pulling.

“Five… four… three… two… one!”

Arthur pulls the last bit free.

“Place your showstopper trifles at the end of your stations.”

Merlin looks at Gwen, and then back at Arthur. “Thank you.” Gwen smiles, and Arthur walks away.

 

They go inside for the break and it feels too cold in contrast. Merlin does a brief recap with Vivienne on the way. “It’s unbelievably hot in the tent,” he says. She smiles at him in an odd way and is uncharacteristically quiet.

 

Paul and Prue judge Alice’s first. Her piña colada trifle also features a white chocolate collar, and it is slightly slumped at the top. Gwen and Percy have both made choux buns with different crème fillings, and they both delight the judges. Nimueh has a jelly base and chocolate lace collar, and even Paul looks impressed. “In this heat?” Prue asks. “Marvelous.” Lance has a lime-themed trifle, and Gwaine and Mithian have both done lemon.

“Arthur, please bring forth your trifle,” Noel announces. He walks it forward among little gasps of delight. The chocolate work is intricate and delicate.

“Wow.” Paul stares at it. “It’s almost a shame to take it apart.” He scoops out a big spoonful, and he and Prue each take a bite.

Prue sets her fork down and watches Paul, who is silent. “It’s wonderful,” she declares.

Paul nods. “It is. The sponge is great, that mousse is perfect. And you’ve really mastered cherries. Well done.”

“Merlin please bring up your showstopper trifle.” The walk feels long. Merlin concentrates on not dropping it, then places it on the table.

Paul’s stare cuts him. “Not the most professional chocolate work we’ve seen today.”

“No, I shouldn’t have done white chocolate in this heat and humidity.”

“But it did temper,” Prue points out. “Luckily.”

Paul raises his eyebrows and scoops out trifle. They taste it and he shakes his head. “Merlin, I wish this looked better because it tastes… fantastic.”

“You really get that amaretto in the sponge, but it isn’t too much.”

“And the texture of that Génoise is perfect for a trifle.” Paul scratches his head. “But this chocolate work. You need to improve presentation.”

“Without sacrificing flavour,” Prue notes. They both smile at him, almost apologetic and concerned.

“Thank you.” Merlin walks back to his station.

 

“I am worried,” Merlin tells Vivienne. “I mean, I did well on the technical, but at this point, it isn’t good to get that feedback.”

“But they liked the flavour.”

“The way they told me the presentation needs work was really bad. Really bad.”

Vivienne tilts her head to the side. “I…” She stops. She looks to her left; Arthur arrives for his interview. “Thank you, Merlin. That’s all we need.”

Merlin takes a few steps. “Thank you,” he responds. He looks at Arthur. “And, um, thank _you_ , too. I wouldn’t have gotten that in time—”

“No problem. Just, maybe don’t wait so long next time, okay?” Arthur’s mouth quirks up on one side, but his eyes are already on Vivienne, so Merlin walks away.

The break is surprisingly quick. A runner shouts, “Back in the tent, everyone!” Merlin throws away yet another empty water bottle and laments the amount of plastic in the ocean. The others have left him a seat near the middle, essentially in the same position as the technical judging. The crew files in, and cameras roll.

“It has been a fantastic week,” Sandi says, “with some amazing bakes, awe-inspiring chocolate work, mountains of meringue—”

“And enough cheesecake to feed the whole of Berkshire.” Noel smiles. “And I get the good job this week, of announcing Star Baker. This week’s Star Baker is a meringue master. Their artistry covers both cherries and chocolates—sometimes separate, and sometimes together. This week’s Star Baker is… Arthur!”

Merlin looks over and sees complete shock on Arthur’s face. He bites his lip and holds on to Gwen and Mithian. _Not me_ , he thinks. _Please not me._

“That means I have the terrible job. We really wish we could bribe the judges to let everyone through, as usual, but one of you will not be with us next week. This week, the baker who will not be returning is…” She takes a deep breath. “Alice.”

For a moment, no one moves. Alice, though, nods. “That’s alright,” she says. Merlin’s eyes sting. Nearly everyone is in tears. Everyone descends on Alice for kisses and hugs.

 

Edric does Merlin’s follow-up interview. “Another week through!” His voice is bright.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. He wonders what would have happened if Arthur and Gwen helped Alice with _her_ chocolate collar instead.

“Merlin?”

“Sorry. I’m just in a bit of shock. I’m so happy to be going on, though. I know I need to work on presentation. I just have to focus on that for next week. Being consistent.”

“Okay, great.” Edric puts down the camera. “And hey, Merlin?”

“Mm?”

“Is it still okay if I text?”

“Oh, of course.”

“And if you do find some free time this week, I hope you’ll let me know.” He smiles, and Merlin can’t help but smile back. He nods, and then makes his way to the bus.

The group is somber as they sit, but then Alice arrives. “What are these long faces?” She looks outraged. “This is week four of the Great British Bake Off! We have already done what most people only dream of! This is a celebration!” She points at Gwaine. “Young man, music! Now!”

Gwaine’s smile is tremendous. He pulls out his Bluetooth speaker and blasts “Wannabe.”

Alice sings every word.

 

Merlin looks at Arthur when they reach the inn, and finds his eyes already on him. He lifts his eyebrows in a question, and Merlin nods. They retrieve their bags, say farewells, and meet at Arthur’s car.

“Congratulations,” Merlin says when they’re on the M4.

Arthur lets out a little laugh. “Thanks. I’m…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t expect it.”

“Why not? You did brilliant.”

“Not on my pavlova.”

“Arthur, it was stunning.”

“But yours tasted better.”

“And your chocolate work…”

“Was about equal to Nimueh’s.”

Merlin raises a brow. “You should just admit that you did a great job.” Arthur’s laugh is truncated and… Merlin looks at him. “You’re shy, aren’t you?”

“Shy?”

“Yeah, shy. That's why you're so... You’re afraid of…” He tries to _not_ stare at Arthur’s jawline. “I think you’d be surprised at how willing people are to _not_ judge you by your family, if you gave them a chance.”

“I give people a chance.”

“You don’t.”

“Because I don’t play board games?”

“Because you practise law and bake, and you only talk to your half-sister and her immediate family.”

“I talk to her boyfriend.”

“Well, that makes it all better.”

Arthur huffs and changes lanes to pass a Vauxhall. “Okay, fine. I’ll… try something new this week.”

Merlin eyes him. “Well, you can wait until the series is finished, if you want. But good.”

“Though you should…” Merlin’s pulse inexplicably speeds. Arthur bites his lip.

“I should what?”

“Nothing.”

Merlin pushes at the cuticle on his left thumb. He forces himself to relax. “Okay.”

Arthur pulls up to Merlin’s building without directions. He jumps out and opens the hatch before Merlin is out of his seat. He hands him his duffel as he clears his throat.

“Thanks again, Arthur. For the ride and… everything.” He extends his hand for a handshake.

Arthur’s brow furrows as he stares at the hand, and then he takes it in his warm, strong grip. “Uh, yeah. Like I said, no big deal.” He squeezes. “I mean, I wanted to. To help.” He swallows, opens his mouth, and then closes it. "My shirt smells like your fabric softener."

“MERLIN EMRYS GET IN HERE AND TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED!”

Merlin winces. Arthur lets go of his hand. “That’ll be Will,” Merlin explains.

Arthur looks up to the window Will is hanging out of. “I see.”

“STOP FLIRTING AND GET UP HERE,” Will yells.

Merlin feels his eyes go wide. “Uhh…”

Arthur’s face flushes. “I’ll see you next week, Merlin Emrys.”

“Bye.” And Merlin goes off to kill his flatmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that Arthur's hot/cold back and forth isn't too jarring. I just like that Arthur has these different parts of his personality that are brought out at different times, and the crazy circumstances of the show format really work to display that, when in other circumstances, behavior would be less extreme as people are getting to know each other. Instead, they have these super high emotions that create much more intimate relationships on an accelerated timeline... I just think that Merlin tends to be the one who is much more consistent, whereas Arthur will go from this intimate fireside/bedside talk to borderline mean depending on the circumstances and whether or not he's thinking about it. I actually really like that about him as a character because he's flawed.
> 
> Again, I cannot say enough thank yous to everyone sustaining this project. I know I keep complaining about how long this is taking me to write, and I can only imagine how frustrating that is for you reading it. I'm sorry! I promise to do my best!  
> Meanwhile, so much love to everyone who is taking the time to read this monstrosity and endless gratitude for every comment and kudo--even if I'm utter crap at responding in a timely manner. They really do mean the world to me and I just don't know how to express that.


	5. Pies and Tarts Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Pies and Tarts Week on the Great British Bake Off, and the competition is getting fierce. So is the pining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep nodding off while trying to proof this, so please excuse typos. I'm sure there are several that I'll correct as I look back through when I'm awake.

By Tuesday, Merlin has tired of tart jokes. By Wednesday, he is annoyed. So Thursday, he half-expects Will to also be weary of the gag. He hears the door open as he leans over to pull the latest meat pie from the oven, but he doesn’t think about the position until Will gives a long whistle. Merlin drops the pie on the stovetop, turns, and holds up a finger. Will’s next quip is halfway out of his mouth before Merlin can shush him. “Enough, Will. Jesus.”

“Come on, now, Merls.”

“No. I’m very busy.”

“Well I have been thinking—”

“Oh no.”

“And I think you’ll agree that your wardrobe this week is _very_ important.”

“No.”

“Hear me out now.”

“No.”

“And we picked this up in Soho.” He tosses an unassuming paper package on the counter. Merlin glares at him. “Go on, check it out now.”

“Where did you go?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Will grins. “Just open it.”

Merlin frowns. He drops his oven mitt and pulls open the package. “Will.”

“Perfect, right?”

“I am not going to dress like some… dockside… rentboy.” He stops. “If that’s even a thing.”

“Oh, come on now. It’ll be nice and cool in the tent. And it’ll get the attention of that posh tosser you like, what’s-his-name.”

“I do not think neon mesh is the right way to attract Arthur’s attention.”

“A-ha!” Will grins triumphantly. “You admit it!”

“No! I don’t—”

“Too late!”

“Just… Shut it and try this meat pie.”

“But I wanted more fruit tarts.”

“I’ll make some later.”

“Okay, cut me a piece.” Merlin gets out a knife. “At _least_ wear the makeup, though.”

“You know I’m holding a deadly weapon.”

“It’s glitter.”

“It’s sharp.”

“We went all the way to Old Compton Street.”

“I _will_ cut you.”

By Friday, Merlin really is ready to murder Will. He has also given him every type of tart he can imagine, and received feedback on every filling, the texture of each fruit, and the precise level of sweetness acceptable in his lemon crème. Merlin figures the sugar will kill him slowly, just as effectively as the knife. In the meantime, Will is earning his keep. “This one,” he says over lunch. “This is the one.”

Merlin nods. “Thank you.”

Will just smirks. “You know—”

“I’m not wearing it.”

“Missed opportunity, mate.” Will shakes his head, and then levels a stare at him. “You heard from him?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Merlin sighs. He does know. “No, of course not. He’s not—He doesn’t have my number, for one. And he’s not—”

“Interested?” Will snorts. “Sure.”

“You haven’t even met him.”

“He’s driven you home twice.”

“So? That doesn’t mean—”

“Uh, yes it does.”

“No—”

“I bet, Merlin, if you just,” he smirks again, “ _tart_ yourself up a bit. Put on a little guy-liner, a little, whatever on your lips—that Chapstick with the wax that looks all—”

“You told me to stop wearing that because it looks like lipstick!”

“I didn’t tell you to stop. I just told you you look like a girl.”

“I don’t want to look like a girl!”

“I’ll bet he won’t be able to stop staring at your mouth.”

“No.”

“Thinking about—oh gross. I’m going to go… something to purge that thought.”

This time, it’s Merlin who smirks.

 

Gwen and Lance are waiting for Merlin at the station. _It’s friendship_ , he thinks. That’s all Arthur feels for him. He isn’t any more attracted to him than Gwen or Lance. _Obviously_. He squeezes his duffel a bit tighter than necessary. Gwen hops out of Lance’s car and wraps him in a hug. She smiles. “Are you ready?”

Merlin smiles back. “Let’s go.”

Lance puts his duffel in the back like the week before, and then carefully looks both directions before taking off. He peeks at Merlin in the rearview. “How do you feel about Pies and Tarts Week, Merlin? Neither of us know knows what to expect.”

“Just to avoid soggy bottoms,” Gwen says. “Which is always a good standard.”

Merlin nods. “Not just baking.”

Lance looks slightly scandalized. “I’ve eaten so much custard this week, I’ve had to double my exercise.”

“You mean you hadn’t before?” Merlin asks. “Not for dessert or cakes?”

“I mostly sampled that. Custard tarts, though…” He signals to turn and shakes his head. “I cannot resist.” He reaches across the console for Gwen’s hand. “And _someone_ wouldn’t stop testing different flavour combinations.”

Gwen giggles. “At least we figured out short crust pastry.” She turns and looks at Merlin. “Do you have something brilliant planned?”

“I don’t know if it’s brilliant, but I did get pretty creative with fruit this week.”

“It is nice to think though, that there are a few basic things to know this week,” Lance says with a quick little smile at Gwen. “Desserts could be anything, really.”

Gwen raises her hands. “No, no, don’t say that! They’ll have something totally diabolical planned for the technical.”

Merlin nods. “Some obscure pie from Liechtenstein that no one’s ever heard of, probably.”

“Or something from the Middle Ages,” Lance laughs.

It’s cloudy when they reach the inn, as if a summer storm could start at any moment. Merlin takes his duffel from Lance and turns away while he pulls out his and Gwen’s luggage. Merlin lets his eyes scan the carpark. Mithian’s car is here. Arthur’s is not. He can’t help but watch the roadway beyond the drive. Traffic is light. Of course, he doesn’t see any cars he recognizes. Why would he?

“Merlin?” Gwen prompts. “You coming in?”

“Yeah, yeah. It looks like it may rain.”

“Are you going out with Edric again?”

“Oh. Um, probably not. I hadn’t really thought…” He thinks of the unanswered text on his phone.

“You never did say how it went last week.”

“It was… fine.”

“Fine?” Gwen holds the door open for him.

“He’s nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yes.” Merlin smiles at the receptionist.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Gwen gives him a hard look. “You’re not telling me something. Does it have anything to do with—”

“Gwen.” Lance stops her.

“Oh, right.”

“What? To do with what?”

“Nothing. Just, you know, something we were talking about last week. You don’t need to worry about it!” Merlin watches her check in and take her key. Lance goes next, and Merlin turns to peek outside again. _Odd that more people aren’t arriving right now._

“Merlin?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re up, mate.”

“Oh, right.” He walks to the desk. “Merlin Emrys.”

The receptionist types his name. “A single?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” More typing. “Two-oh-four.” Merlin takes the key. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Y—thank you.”

“Let’s get dinner here tonight. What do you think?” Gwen proposes.

Lance nods. “Of course. Do you want to invite the others?”

“I’ll text Mithian and Nimueh.”

“And I’ll text Percy and Gwaine. Merlin, can you ask Arthur?”

Merlin’s stomach clenches. “Uh, why, erm, I don’t have his number.”

They both stare at him a moment, then at each other, and then back at him. Gwen gives him a sad look. “Oh dear.”

Lance gives her a hard look. “I’ll have Gwaine text him, then. He has everyone’s number.”

“He doesn’t have mine.”

“Yes he does. Gwen gave it to him.”

Merlin adjusts his duffel. “Oh.”

Lance takes his and Gwen’s baggage and heads to the first floor corridor. “Let’s meet for dinner at seven.”

“See you then,” Merlin agrees. He heads to the stairs for the second floor, ignoring Gwen’s contemplative stare as he goes.

The stairs have become familiar, and the quiet corridor sets his heart pounding. He sighs. “Get ahold of yourself,” he whispers. He walks to his room, unlocks the door, and stares inside. He realizes he’s chewing on his bottom lip, so he forces himself to stop and walk inside. It is a mirror of his room from last week, and he sets his bag carefully on the desk, then sinks down onto the bed. He closes his eyes. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

The message is from an unknown number, and it contains another phone number. Before Merlin can respond, he receives a winky-face emoji and a “ _G.”_

“ _Whose number is that?_ ” Merlin replies.

“ _King of the Britons._ ”

Merlin starts to ask why Gwaine would send that, but he locks the screen instead. He wonders if Arthur really sleeps in athletic shorts.

 

Pounding on the door awakens him. “Merlin! Come on!” Gwaine yells.

“Yeah, _ahem_. Just a—hold on.” Merlin rolls off the bed and drags himself to the door. “Hey.”

“There he is! Come on Magic Man. Time for dinner.” Gwaine claps Merlin on the shoulder and leads him downstairs. Most of the bakers are already in the pub: Gwen and Lance are seated across a table from Mithian. Nimueh is calmly watching them from the bar. Percy grins and waves as Merlin and Gwaine enter.

“Oh, where’s Arthur?” Merlin asks.

“You didn’t text him?”

“No, I thought you were going to.”

“I did. He had to work late.” Gwaine pulls a chair out. “Sit. Eat. _Drink_.”

 

It’s late when Merlin walks back to his room. He climbs the stairs and stops. Arthur is standing in the hallway. “Arthur?”

Arthur turns. He’s holding his suitcase and a room key. “Hey.” His voice is worn down.

“Did you just get here? It’s late.”

Arthur looks down at his luggage, then back at Merlin like he’s gone daft. “Yes, I just got here. I know.”

Merlin frowns. “Right.” He walks to his door without looking at Arthur, unlocks it, and pushes it open.

“I just…” Arthur sighs, and Merlin turns to him. “It’s been a long day. Week.”

“Sorry. Can I… Can I help?”

Arthur runs a hand over the back of his neck and stretches it from side to side. “Become an expert on immigration law in the next five days.”

“Oh.” Merlin blinks. He looks at the tight line of Arthur’s shoulders. “I’ll just… see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Merlin.”

 

When Merlin wakes, the first thing he thinks is, _How did Arthur end up in the room next door?_ He showers to wake himself up, then pulls on a pair of dark jeans that _may_ be a bit tighter than usual. He usually saves them for going out and, maybe it’s Will’s insistence he “tart himself up,” but he does feel compelled to make an effort. His red t-shirt is also a snug fit. The lip balm is in the side pocket of his duffel. He takes it out and holds it for a minute. Then he pockets it. And gets it back out. And then pockets it again.

Arthur is standing in the corridor when Merlin opens the door. His hair is still wet from the shower. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Good morning to you too,” Merlin replies. He takes in the lines around Arthur’s eyes and the stiffness of his motions. “It’s fine. I assume you had a stressful week at work.”

“There’s just a lot going on, and I’m out here _baking_ while people’s lives are…”

“People’s _lives_?”

Arthur looks nauseated. He nods with a small, tight motion. “Yeah.”

“Okay, well, are there other people working on… the thing? Or is it just you?”

“Yes, but—”

“You’re the only one who knows what to do or how to do it right?”

“That’s not really how it works.”

“Practising law?”

“Preparing for a hearing.”

“Is there anything you could do right now to help?”

“I could be going over—”

“Have you not already gone over something?”

“Well no, but—”

“So you’d be going _back_ over.”

“Yes, but—”

“Would that actually help?”

Arthur chews on his bottom lip and stares at Merlin. “Probably not.”

“Then don’t feel bad about baking. You get to have a life, too.”

Arthur’s face _changes_ at that. His brow furrows as he considers Merlin’s words, and then it relaxes and he looks taken aback. His eyes are almost searching as they track over Merlin’s face, then settle on his eyes. Finally, he nods. “Coffee?” he asks.

“I’d rather have tea.”

 

Two thoughts occur to Merlin as the group walks toward the tent. One is that the weather is absolutely perfect. It did rain the night before, and the air is cooler and fresher as a result. The other thought is that Arthur is also wearing tighter trousers than usual. Merlin is determined to keep his mind off of it, but Arthur is just ahead of him on the path. Merlin looks up, instead.

The soft breeze sets the treetops in a gentle sway. The sky is bright blue and dotted with fluffy pink-white clouds. It’s almost cool in the shade, and Merlin can see a fine layer of rainwater hasn’t evaporated from the landscape. He licks his lips, then absently pulls the lip balm from his pocket.

“Merlin! Good morning.” Edric meets him just before he enters the tent.

“Edric. Hi, good morning.”

“I didn’t hear from you, and I just wanted to say that I totally understand you’re busy with this right now, but I also…” He steps aside, and Merlin follows. “I also really like you.” He lets out a long breath. Merlin doesn’t know how to respond, so he covers his silence by putting on the lip balm and nodding. Edric continues. “So I’m more than happy to wait for a week or two, or even longer if that’s what happens.”

Merlin nods. “I’ll… I’ll let you know.” He smiles, and then walks into the tent to find nearly everyone else watching him. He ignores the quizzical looks and finds his station. This week, Lance and Gwen are in the back, he and Arthur are in front of them, Percy and Nimueh are in front of them, and Mithian and Gwaine are in the front. Merlin ties on his apron.

“Before we get started, I have something to say.” Merlin turns. Gwen stands in the center aisle, head high and smile wide. The other conversations die as everyone else listens. Merlin sees a pair of camera operators surreptitiously switch on their record buttons. Gwen clears her throat and continues. “As most of you know, I make jewelry and other metalworks. This week, I finished a pin for us to pass around each week.” She reaches in the pocket of her skirt. “For our Star Baker.”

The star is made from interlocking strands of silver and gold, twisted together like Celtic knots. Sandi, who has watched from the side of the tent, strides over to her. “You made this?”

Gwen nods. “I wanted to have it done last week, but time got away from me.”

Sandi looks into one of the cameras. “I can’t imagine what got in your way.” She inspects the pin. “This is absolutely gorg, you clever girl. Where’s Arthur?” She motions. “Star Baker last week, right?” Arthur nods. He steps over to them.

“Would you like to wear it?” Gwen asks, holding it out.

“Of course. It’s really incredible.”

Gwen beams. She pins it to his apron. The bakers clap, and Gwaine lets out a little cheer. “Wonderful,” Sandi pronounces. “Now we’re ready to begin.”

 

“Welcome back, bakers!” Sandi declares. “It is Week Five, and it is a be-autiful day.”

Noel nods. “And this week you will be making your best pies and tarts.” Paul and Prue appear to have their eyes on the same spot, somewhere to Merlin’s right. He turns his head to follow their gaze, and his eyes meet Arthur’s. Arthur turns quickly and looks back to the front. _Oh god_ , Merlin thinks. _He’s going to think I’m staring at him_. He forces himself to pay attention.

“…your best savory pies,” Sandi is saying.

“These pies should be filled with a meat or veg filling—or both—hearty enough to be a meal.”

“Our judges want to see something that will hold together, without being too dry.”

“And also not too wet. You know what that means?”

“No soggy bottoms!”

Noel grins. “You have two hours.”

“On your marks.”

“Get set!”

“Bake!”

Merlin starts with the pastry dough because it will need to be chilled before it is rolled. He starts by putting water on to boil, and cuts up the butter and fat. He mixes flour with a bit of salt, and makes a well in the center of the bowl. When the water is boiling, he mixes it with the fats. He is blending it with the flour when the judges arrive at his workstation. “Merlin,” Paul says. “Tell us about your savoury pie.”

“It is a beef bourguignon pie,” Merlin explains.

Prue makes a pleased sound. “And you’re using a hot water crust pastry?”

“Yes, for a meat pie.”

Sandi runs a hand across the countertop. Her smile is loaded, somehow. Merlin watches her watch him. “How are you feeling about this week?” she asks.

“Pretty good.” He keeps the question from his voice.

“And you have last week’s Star Baker right over there, with a badge to show it. Right in the corner of your eye.” Paul frowns as he listens. Merlin keeps his face neutral, but Paul is now clearly curious where Sandi is going. “Does that make your nervous?”

Merlin _tries_ to keep his eyes on them, he does. But he fails. His eyes slip over to Arthur, who’s stirring something in a saucepan. He’s leaning down a bit, looking at it, and Merlin swallows hard as he takes in the clenched jaw, the steady hand. He wonders if the work business has distracted him, and if he had time to practise this week. Merlin doubts Arthur makes many meat pies for fun, so this might be a real challenge—especially considering the cooked elements, which require an entirely different set of skills. He wonders if the case ( _Is that the right word?_ ) is about an immigrant—based on Arthur’s comment from the night before. And if so, what’s their story? Where are they from? What part is Arthur playing?

“Merlin?” Prue’s voice is quiet.

“Hm?” Merlin turns. They’re all three studying him. Prue looks concerned. Paul looks intrigued. Sandi looks… Merlin can’t decipher the look. _Pleased?_

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Sandi says. She pats Merlin on the back and looks directly into the camera. “I’d bet he feels the same way about you.”

Merlin stares at her. “Intimidated by me?” he asks, but they’re already walking away. He feels the camera linger on his face, so he schools his expression and gets back to work. He forces himself to _not_ listen to them talk to Arthur.

Two hours isn’t a long time for his pie, so he hustles the rest of his pastry and gets it in to chill. Next, he tackles the filling. He coats the beef in flour and salt, sears it, and then removes it from heat. Next, he cooks the lardons to start the sauce: pearl onions, leek, carrot, garlic, mushrooms, Burgundy, and a splash of brandy. He adds the beef. He doesn’t want it to be too wet, so he only uses a small amount of broth. He adds a splash of lemon juice to brighten it, and salt and pepper. He tastes the result; it is delicious. He lets it cook.

After half an hour, the sauce is still too thin. Merlin watches it and keeps checking the time. Arthur is on the floor, staring into his oven. He looks beyond stressed, so Merlin crosses the aisle to him. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Arthur responds. He barely pulls his eyes from the oven.

“Are you planning to sit there for the next hour?”

“No. It’s almost done.”

“What? How?”

Arthur stands. “It needs to set. I’m injecting this,” he waves at his sauce pan, “when it’s out, and then I’ll let it cool.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You didn’t think to look at Paul Hollywood’s pork pie recipe to prepare for this?”

Merlin looks at Arthur’s workstation, which is virtually spotless. “Well, no, not really.” He looks at Arthur and finds him staring at him with a slightly pained expression. His eyes are… Merlin presses his lips together and feels his lip balm. _Oh_. Arthur’s neck convulses as he swallows. _Oh, god_ , Merlin thinks. _I must look like a lunatic._ He lets out a tight little laugh. “Well, I’m just gonna…” He points, then walks back to his station.

Noel meets him there. “Merlin. How is it coming?”

Merlin stirs his filling. “Not ideal.” He bites his lip, thinking.

“I like your lip gloss.”

“It isn’t lip gloss. It’s just balm.”

“Well, I still like it. Can I use some?”

“Seriously?”

Noel grins. “Of course.”

Merlin pulls the balm from his pocket and hands it to Noel, who looks at it. He dabs some on his finger, and then smears it on his lips. Merlin feels his face heat as he watches. It really does add a glossy sheen that brings out the soft pink. Noel hands it back, winks, and struts away like a slightly wobbly runway model.

Merlin looks at his filling. “Okay,” he says. “This isn’t working.” He strides to the refrigerator and gets his dough, which he quickly rolls into top and bottom crust. He puts the base in a deep tin and smooths it. Then, he uses a slotted spoon to fill the base with the meat and veg. He inspects what’s left. “It’s too thin,” he tells the camera man. “I need cornflour.”

Thickening the gravy doesn’t take long, once he’s decided on it. He dumps it into the base, and then puts the top on the pie. He frowns. _Work on presentation_. He lets out a long sigh. “Okay.” He thinks, _Why didn’t I get one of those stamp things?_ He rolls out a piece of extra crust, and then uses scissors to cut it into little leaf shapes, which he sticks around the top. It’s fancier than he did at home. He bakes it with an egg wash, so it’s glossy and brown.

“Bakers, you have fifteen minutes remaining!” Sandi yells. “Fifteen minutes for your savoury pies.”

Merlin gives in. He sits down in front of his oven and watches it. Across the aisle, Arthur is inspecting his. It is free-standing and golden brown, but otherwise… plain. Merlin blinks. Arthur rubs at his face. A camera closes in on Merlin’s face. Anne, the operator, gives him an inquisitive stare. “I’m leaving it in until the last minute,” Merlin tells her. She frowns at him, looking back and forth between him and Arthur. “What?” Merlin asks. She just shakes her head and smiles. Patronizingly.

True to his word, Merlin waits until the final minute to take out his pie. He places it on a little stand and gingerly taps at the tin until it slides free. As Noel shouts the final countdown, he slides it onto a cake tray. Then he looks around. He is the only baker who hasn’t garnished his pie with a sprig or two of something. Even Arthur, in the end, has spruced his up. Merlin feels an intense and sudden sinking sensation, as if his chest is collapsing. “Place your savoury pies at the end of your stations.”

 Edric does a follow-up interview. “How do you think that went?”

“I didn’t even think about doing some sort of garnish. I should’ve done a sprig of something. Parsley. Basil. Anything, really. Everyone else dressed theirs up, and then there’s mine, slapped together like, like, like something.”

“So it _didn’t_ go well?”

“I don’t know, Edric. I really don’t know. They want things to look good at this point, and my things… don’t.” He scratches at his neck. “I don’t know.”

Merlin walks about the garden before he goes back to the tent. Birds are singing, and the insects are noisy. The day is alive, and Merlin is doing something he loves, so he forces himself to relax and enjoy it.

A cup of tea is waiting for him when he returns. Merlin looks around, but no one acknowledges him. It’s in the yellow mug he used the week before. Merlin grins. “Thank you,” he says in a quiet voice. No one responds. No one else is drinking tea. Across the aisle, Arthur crackles a bottle of water.

Merlin looks at his pie, and his stomach sinks. It’s starting to sink in the on the side. He sips the tea. He sighs. “Thank you,” he whispers again.

 

Merlin purposefully does not listen to the judges talk to Lance or Gwen. They arrive at his station and he sets the tea aside. The camera rolls and he awkwardly gestures to his pie as if to say, “Here it is, take it or leave it.”

Paul frowns. Prue gives Merlin a hard look. “It’s quite simple, even with those little leaves you’ve attached.”

“And it has concertinaed in on itself, like maybe you haven’t filled it all the way, or you didn’t let it cool properly.”

Merlin presses his lips together and gives a tight nod. “Yeah.”

“Let’s see what’s inside.” Paul slices into it. He pulls out a piece. The filling slips away from the crust and the whole mess crumples into a heap.

“It smells nice,” says Prue. Paul just glares at it as if he can’t believe it would have the audacity to fall apart. Noel is curiously, worryingly quiet. Paul and Prue each take a bite. Prue gestures to the pie. “Really, we’d like to see something that holds together.”

“Right.” Merlin nods again. “I tried to thicken it up, but…”

“It needed more time,” Paul finishes. He looks hard at Merlin. “You’ve really let yourself down here.”

“Because it crumbled?” asks Noel.

“Because it isn’t that good.”

Merlin nods again. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. His eyes sting a little.

“I think that’s a little harsh,” Prue argues. “It just isn’t at the level we are used to with you, Merlin.” She purses her lips. “Maybe boeuf bourguignon simply doesn’t work in a pie.” She turns the piece over. “Though it is remarkable, given the state of the inside, that the crust held up as well as this.”

Noel squeezes the back of Merlin’s neck. “Silver linings.”

Merlin nods again. “Yep.” He looks up, so that his eyes don’t spill over. He refuses to cry on television, especially over _pie_.

Arthur’s pork pie is stunning, really, in its simplicity. It is plain, but glossy and garnished with fresh herbs. The bottom is flaky. When Paul slides a piece out, it looks tidy, and a delicious aroma wafts across to Merlin. His mouth waters.

“Look at that!” Merlin hears Noel exclaim. He feels his chest quake, so he stares at the teacup. He takes the final sip.

“You’ve played it safe, but you’ve done it to perfection.” Paul doesn’t shake Arthur’s hand, but he does take a second bite. Everything else is white noise. Merlin stares at his pie. It did _not_ look like this at home. Did he rush it? _You did_ , he thinks. _You let it cool fully at home._ But it doesn’t matter; Paul and Prue didn’t even like the flavours. He should have chosen something different. He should have done the pork pie even if it was the easiest choice. Or steak and kidney (even though that would crumble, too). He recalls every pie he made all week. Was one a better option?

“Stop.” Merlin looks up and finds Arthur standing beside him.

“Huh?”

“Stop. I can hear you thinking across the tent.”

“Sorry…”

“Just stop it. It’s pie, Merlin. Not life or death.”

The words make Merlin’s eyes sting again. “I know.”

“Then quit it. It isn’t worth your tears. There are far more important things than this… silly baking show.” He makes a contemptuous gesture.

“What?”

“Well, there are. If anything, you should be relieved to get back to your real life. You can figure out what you’re actually going to do with it.”

Merlin swallows. Hard. He looks into Arthur’s eyes. They’re angry. Merlin lets himself mirror it. “This _is_ what I’m actually doing with it, you… supercilious… imbecile.”

Arthur’s eyes widen and he visibly recoils. “What?”

“I _said_ , it _is_ what I’m actually doing. I’ve been working to get on here for years. I’m not just having a laugh here.” Arthur winces. “Not just, taking a break from my all-important, well-paying day job, saving people’s lives.”

“That isn’t what I meant. I’m not—”

“Saying baking and working in a shop aren’t important? Yes, Arthur, you were. That’s exactly what you were saying.”

“Okay but _you_ said it was just a temporary thing after school. You were the one who said that.” Merlin just stares at him. “And it’s _not_ important, yeah? It’s _not._ Do you have any idea the number of people living in exile of repressive governments? Or just in the UK—just in London? People who face being imprisoned or worse because of their sexuality or ethnicity, or anything else, and they need help, Merlin, they need someone to help, but people like my father just—” He stops. They both look up. Everyone is staring at them. “God _damn_ it!.” Arthur squeezes his hands into fists, turns, and walks out of the tent. Merlin takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, opens them, and walks out the other side.

Mercifully, no one forces him to do an interview about the terrible signature. A runner finds him on a bench under an ancient oak tree and tells him it’s time for the technical. He walks back to his station without looking at or speaking to anyone. It has been cleared of everything, including the mug.

 

“Hello bakers,” Noel says. “It’s time for this week’s technical challenge.”

“And this week’s challenge will come to us from Paul.” Sandi turns to him. “Paul, do you have anything to say for yourself? Any pieces of wisdom for our bakers?”

“This challenge is all about timing. Time it carefully. Act wisely.”

Noel nods. “And as always, this round will be judge blind, so, off you go.” He shoos them out. “Right. I’ve planned something special today.”

“What’s that?”

“Battle royale. Maces and handaxes.”

“Seems a bit extreme, but whatever helps Prue let out her aggression.”

“We tried to get a bouncy castle again, but they were all taken.”

“Maybe next week.”

“If there are any survivors.” Noel shrugs.

“Right. Bakers, this week you will be making a traditional tarte tatin,” Sandi tells them. “It will be a classic apple tart on short crust pastry, like you might see in a patisserie window in Paris.”

“You have three hours.”

“On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

Merlin removes the gingham cloth and finds a beautiful bowl of green apples in addition to the basic ingredients. He starts with the crust.

The key to making a perfect short crust pastry is to work it as little as possible. It’s important to not melt the butter. Fortunately, this is one of the skills he’s worked to perfect—part of the preparation he was referring to with Arthur. Merlin grinds his teeth as he gets out a large bowl. No, he isn’t saving lives with cake or games, but that isn’t the point. Those are the things that make life worth saving. He uses his fingertips to blend the flour and butter. He’s still angry when he puts it in plastic wrap and places it in the refrigerator. He works outside and sees Noel standing with an apple on his head and Sandi holding a bow and arrow. He smiles, despite himself. They aren’t saving the world, either—just doing their part to make it a better place. Most people don’t have the ability to cause global political change—like a Pendragon—or to singlehandedly enable a refugee to become a citizen—like an attorney.

Merlin stops. He’s holding an apple and a corer, and he looks over at Arthur. _Arthur is a Pendragon and an attorney_. And he’s baking, instead, right now. _Does being able to do something mean you_ must _do something?_

 _No_ , Merlin thinks. _It isn’t Arthur’s fault. He gets a choice_. Arthur is slicing apples, brow fierce and jaw set. Merlin looks at him and thinks, _People would follow him to the end of the world. And his name is Arthur Pendragon. People would follow him even further than that._ For a moment, Merlin conjures a vivid mental image of Arthur in brilliant chainmail, resplendent in a crimson cloak, wielding a sword and flushed from a fight. It’s startlingly easy to picture, and so detailed, Merlin wonders if he’s inserting Arthur into some film he’s seen and forgotten. He shakes away the thought and tosses his apple slices in lemon juice.

 

Merlin rolls out his pastry dough while the apples are baking. He peeks into his oven and tells Anne, “I want to put the crust on as soon as they’re soft. And then I’ll bake it until it’s all crispy and the sugars have caramelized.”

“And then turn it out?” Noel asks. He’s passing by, and he and Sandi both seem to be staying clear of him. And clear of Arthur, for that matter.

“Yeah. That part.”

“Just use your magic, my wizard friend.”

But Noel has pointed out the real trick. It’s hard to know exactly when to flip the tart. Merlin sits on the floor and stares into his oven. He tries to not think of all the ways it could go terribly wrong. His signature pie must have been the worst, though he realizes he does not know how everyone else did.

Merlin needs to flip the tart after it has had time to set up, but before it is completely cooled and solidified. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Tarte tatin is a forgiving dish. If he times it right, he should be able to straighten any out-of-place apple slices without compromising the tart’s aesthetic. He pulls the pan out and covers the apples with pastry, which he presses against the edge. He slides it back into the over quickly, and then waits. He forces himself to go get a bottle of water and drink it before he looks at the tart.

Liquid has bubbled up around the edge on one side and is pooling, angry and brown, on the crust. Merlin sinks to the floor and stares at it, horrified. He looks up. Anne is holding the camera, obviously concerned. Merlin sighs. He rests his chin on his hands and just watches it happen. There is nothing he can do. When the rest of the crust is fully baked, crisp and golden, he pulls it out and leaves it to cool.

Gwaine flips his tart first. Merlin hears a stream of mutterings that will probably be cut from the edit. Percy is standing by him, visibly holding his breath. He winces. Merlin decides not to watch.

 Noel stands at the front of the tent. “Bakers, you have fifteen minutes!”

Merlin flips the tart. He puts a dish over the pan, squeezes it together, and turns it in a swift motion. He feels it give way. Slowly, carefully, he slides it onto the counter and pulls the pan up.

Half of the apples are missing.

Merlin flips the pan back and finds the other half of the tart has stuck. “How?” he asks. “How is that even possible?” He feels sweat break out on his forehead and his chest. He looks around his workstation and finds a thin knife. He slides it under the apples to free them, and then considers. _How the hell am I going to turn this out now?_ The clock is ticking. Multiple cameras are capturing the disaster. He realizes this will be the footage that shows why he will be sent home. He peaked too early, and now he’s finished. This is it. He swallows hard. Then, he takes out a spatula and slides it beneath the caramelized apples. He tilts the pan up and, as quickly and neatly as possible, turns the apple over onto the empty crust. He attempts to meld together the wreckage, but the caramel has set—too well, really. The caramel that didn’t leak out, that is, and is not currently burnt to the bottom of the crust.

Merlin does not cry. Instead, he grinds his teeth and listens to the countdown. He places his tarte tatin behind his picture, and he goes to find some lunch.

“You’ve had quite the day.” Vivienne stares at him from behind the camera.

“This entire day has been a nightmare.” She is quiet, waiting for him to continue. He shrugs. “I don’t have a single good thing to say, and I’ll be shocked if I’m standing here next week.”

“Your tart hasn’t even been judged yet.”

“I don’t need Paul or Prue to tell me that was a terrible tarte tatin. I think the Tatin sisters are going to rise from the grave and haunt me for eternity as recompense for the effrontery.”

Vivienne actually smiles at that, and Merlin lets out a long, deep breath. “You and Arthur,” she says. Merlin forces himself to keep a neutral face. “What were you arguing about?”

“If baking is a noble profession or if he’s actually obligated to personally save the world.” He sniffs. “And if I should be making more of an effort.”

Vivienne’s face is angry, and then it shifts to something like sorrow. “I’m so sorry, Merlin.”

“It isn’t your fault.”

“No, but I’ve tried in any way I can to show him he doesn’t have to…” She shakes her head.

Merlin can see him, hair shining in the perfect, clear sunlight. He’s walking into the catering tent with Mithian. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it anymore.”

“No, of course not. Sorry.”

 

Merlin zones out during the judges’ evaluations, and during the wait. The stirrings around him force him into the present for the scoring.

“This one is eighth.” Paul points. “Whose is this?” Merlin raises his hand. “Merlin. You let it sit too long, the caramel leaked onto the crust, and it’s just a mess.” Merlin nods. “And in seventh. This one.”

“Mine.” Gwaine waves.

“Gwaine, you didn’t let it sit long enough. Your caramel is too thin, it’s run everywhere, and it has all fallen apart.”

Prue steps forward. “This one is sixth place. Whose is this?” Mithian raises her hand. “Mithian, the crust is just too thick, and that’s why it didn’t properly bake.”

“Fifth place is this one.” Paul points. Percy raises a finger. “Percy, the crust just caught there around the edge, though the texture was right. It’s just overbaked.”

“And in fourth place, this one.” Lance gives a little wave. Prue smiles at him. “Lance, your pastry is perfect, but the apples are _just_ underbaked.” He nods. “And third place,” she takes a step. “This one.” Arthur raises a hand. “Arthur. I think you’ve worked this pastry a bit too much, but it’s well-baked and the apple is just perfection.”

Gwen has Merlin’s hand in a vice-grip. She is not breathing. He squeezes back.

Paul looks at them. His eyes hover on Gwen, then on Nimueh. “In second place… This one.” Gwen lets go. She lifts her hand.

“Gwen. This was tough. Your pastry is fantastic. It really came down to the aesthetics. Which would we see in a patisserie window? Which leaves us at number one.” He points. Nimueh lifts her fingertips.

Prue steps forward. “This is an exemplary tarte tatin. Absolutely lovely, visually, and it tastes great. Elegant, simple.” She nods. “Just perfect.”

Everyone claps. Nimueh smiles, cool, composed, and a little triumphant.

“Exactly what I expected,” Merlin tells the camera, after. “Absolute disaster.”

He tried to relax on the bus and enjoy the convivial mood, but even the music Gwaine plays is tinged with grief, like another bad omen. _“It goes on and on, I don’t know what I want/ On and on, I don’t know if I want it.”_ Merlin leans his forehead against the seat in front of him.

“You can’t do this,” Lance says as they walk to the inn’s entrance.

“Do what?”

“Give in. Give up. One bad day doesn’t mean it’s all over. There are eight people here.”

“Eight really good bakers. And excellent people.”

“ _You_ are one of that eight, Merlin.” He pats him on the shoulder and asks the group about dinner. Merlin doesn’t feel up to it, but he’s all too aware this is in all likelihood the last meal he’ll share with the group.

 

“I’d like to propose a toast.” Gwaine stands at the head of the tables they’ve pushed together at the Rising Sun. “To many things.” Everyone laughs. “To tarts, despite their cruelty. To Channel Four. And to my friend Percy’s biceps.” He flexes and everyone cheers. “And Gwen’s smile.” She blushes amidst awws. “And to Merlin’s tight pants and lip gloss!”

“It’s lip _balm_!”

“May he never wear anything else.”

“Oh my…” He’s drowned out by laughter and cheers and everyone drinks and digs into their food. Merlin is at one end of the tables with Gwen, Lance, and Mithian. The group looks so small like this, and Merlin is struck by the absence of Alice in particular. He can’t imagine the group with anyone less—and then he thinks that’s because he’ll be the next to go. Beyond that, he has no idea. He thinks back to past series and realizes this is the point where it is always hard. Only three will make the final, and he has absolutely no idea who it will be—except that Gwen and Arthur are both bound to be there. They’re both amazing—but then, so are the others. Nimueh’s cool expertise, for example, is a bit terrifying, and Percy has that gentle touch. He takes a bite of curry. A barmaid is flirting with Gwaine now, and Merlin looks past them to the bar. He decides to get himself another drink.

He feels warm and soft two hours later when he climbs into the back of Lance’s car. Mithian is beside him. “Why aren’t you riding with Arthur?” she asks.

Merlin snorts. “Why aren’t you?”

Her grin is immediate and a little incredulous. “Um…”

Gwen turns around and they share a look that leaves Merlin a bit lost. “What?”

Gwen giggles. “Oh Merlin.” She thumbs through Lance’s iPod and puts on some Frank Ocean song.

“Everything is confusing,” Merlin complains, and he leans his head back. “But I like you guys. And I like this music.”

Gwen giggles again. “Oh Merlin.”

“You just said that.” He closes his eyes. “I have to do my stupid laundry in the stupid laundry room.” He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling liner of the car. “I think baking is very important. You can’t live without food, so I’m saving lives too.”

“What?” Mithian asks.

“Nothing.”

“It’s that fight they had earlier,” Lance explains.

“We didn’t have a fight. It’s not like that.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

“It isn’t when he’s all, _him_ , and I’m all, _me._ ”

“Oh Merlin.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Then stop moping and tell him how you feel!”

“What?!”

“Tell. Him. How. You Feel.”

“I don’t—it’s not—it’s not _like_ that. I’m not here to get a boyfriend and I don’t like straight guys.” He ignores the noise Lance makes. “And anyway, I thought he was arrogant, but really he’s just… self-righteous. Out there, defending the helpless and… helping the downtrodden with his… pro bono… stuff.”

Mithian sighs. “Oh, Merlin.”

 

Merlin’s anger simmers as he rifles through his duffel. Then, it quickly, efficiently refocuses to himself. And Will. God damn Will. Somehow, Merlin’s pyjama’s have been replaced by the neon mesh… shirt? Shirt. “Why?” he asks himself. “How? When?” He presses his palms against this eyes. He grabs his detergent, shakes his head, and then walks down to the laundry room. Everything is still slightly fuzzy, but it’s rapidly clearing and deeply unpleasant.

“Hey,” Arthur says when he enters.

“Hey.” Merlin looks down at himself, flour-specked, sweaty, and generally unclean. He looks back at Arthur and finds him in Adidas sweats and a Talking Heads t-shirt. Merlin swallows. He sees and _feels_ Arthur’s eyes on him, taking in the tight jeans. He squeezes the detergent.

“Are you washing your clothes?”

Merlin sighs. “I don’t have any pyjamas.”

Arthur bites his lips. He looks as if he’s in a small amount of pain. “Oh.”

“I just… Do you have extra?”

“No.” Arthur is staring at the jeans. “You’ll just…”

“I don’t…”

“Just go without. No one ever comes in.” He doesn’t meet Merlin’s eyes. “You are wearing—”

“Yes, of course.”

“Okay, well, it’s just like shorts, right?”

“They’re not boxers.”

“Oh. Well, pretend you’re at the beach.”

“Beach. Right.” Arthur stares at him and he leans down and unties his shoes, then slides them off, and his socks.

“So you don’t have a shirt or anything? What did you even pack?”

“ _I_ packed everything. My idiot flatmate thought it would be a funny gag to just pack a—” He stops.

“A what?”

“A… mesh thing he picked up on Old Compton Street with his fellow idiot friends. Because it’s Tart Week.” Arthur has the nerve to actually smirk, and Merlin glares. “It’s _not_ funny.”

“I take it you didn’t notice, then, until—”

“Of course I didn’t notice! You think I _want_ to…” He sighs. He sets down the detergent, then peels the t-shirt over his head in one swift movement.

Arthur opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “Oh, here.” He opens the washing machine.

“Thanks.” It’s cool and Merlin realizes his nipples are tight little nubs. He undoes the button on his jeans. Arthur audibly inhales, and then coughs. Merlin slides the zipper down. Arthur is pointedly looking away. “If anyone comes in here, I’m hiding behind the dryer.” He empties his pockets.

“Of course.”

It could be worse. He could be wearing some of his Andrew Christian. Instead, he’s wearing plain black briefs. He pushes down on his waistband and peers up. Arthur is watching now. His face is completely neutral, almost pointedly so, and Merlin can’t help but wonder how he would feel if their roles were reversed. He would be… affected. He could admit that. He remembers Arthur shirtless, just a few weeks ago. He pushed down and realizes he is slightly… prominent, so he hurriedly shoves off the jeans and holds them in front of himself. When he looks up, Arthur is looking away, breathing out of his mouth, probably exasperated this is taking so long, so Merlin tosses the trousers into the washer and adds the detergent. Arthur’s fabric softener is already open.

“Is that the lip balm you were wearing earlier?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure.” Merlin hands it to him.

“Hmm. Why aren’t you wearing any now?” Arthur licks his lips and it’s distracting.

“It wore off over the day.”

“You should… You should put some on.”

“Why?” Merlin has had three pints of ale. Three in the past three hours. Suddenly, he feels it has been far, far more. Everything is confusing and he feels languid. Dilatory.

Arthur unlocks his phone. “Your lips look chapped.”

“Oh.” Merlin licks hip lips. He sees Arthur watch, then look down at his phone. He dabs on some of the balm, then leans against the washing machine as he finishes starting the wash cycle. He twists the knob to the Regular setting and inserts coins. It starts to fill just as Merlin feels a finger brush against his back. He stills.

“You have a birthmark here.” Arthur’s voice is a low murmur, and Merlin feels like his skin is too tight. When Arthur pulls his finger away, Merlin aches. That point on his back is now the center of life and existence and he spreads his fingers and presses them down against the cool metal of the machine. He’s so hard, he’s pushing against it. He thinks he can feel Arthur’s breath on his shoulder. He turns his head enough to see Arthur’s profile; he’s looking at his phone again. _Get a grip_ , Merlin thinks. He takes a few deep breaths and calms himself enough that he looks relatively decent. “You’re awfully quiet,” Arthur observes. “Still mad at me, I take it.”

“I’m not mad at you.” Merlin spins around.

Arthur looks at him with a raised eyebrow. Then the brow lowers and he keeps looking. His eyes rest on Merlin’s lips again, then down, probably to his collar bones. They take in the chest hair, his thin frame, before stopping at the briefs.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Arthur’s eyes snap back to Merlin’s. I’m not. It’s not like I haven’t…” He swallows. “And anyway, you _were_ mad, and I don’t know why. Just because you didn’t want to hear.”

“Hear what? That my goals are meaningless?”

“What?”

“Baking. Making something of all this.”

“You mean like a show? Like Liam or Nadiya?”

“I mean, I don’t want to presume I’m as likeable or talented… but starting a catering business or a cake shop would be nice.” He frowns. “Of course, it isn’t the same as you.”

“What? Oh god. No, I’m sorry, Merlin. I just… It’s been a really shit week and this case is all coming to a head right now. And all through it, it’s just my father’s voice in the back of my head.”

“What does he think about your baking?”

“He doesn’t know. We only really see each other for holidays.”

“He’s going to find out when he sees the new series.”

“He won’t. See it, that is. Someone will brief him on it so he can have talking points.”

“But won’t you want him to come to the final?”

Arthur’s smile is tight and bitter. “He wouldn’t ever do something like that.”

“Isn’t it free publicity?”

“Not if it isn’t about him. And anyway, Pendragons don’t _need_ publicity.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t mean to sound like an ass. The thing is, it’s true.”

“He sounds absolutely terrible. I can’t imagine no wanting to be there, not want to always be part of your life.” Merlin goes to wipe his suddenly-sweaty palms on his trouser legs, and then remembers he isn’t wearing any. “I mean, not to presume he isn’t part of your life. I just…” He licks his lips and tastes the balm, vanilla and roses.

Arthur takes a step toward him and Merlin leans against the washing machine. “So your flatmate unpacked your pyjamas.”

“Yes. Will. Probably laughing his arse off right now with his mates.”

Arthur reaches out and rubs at something on the detergent bottle. His arm is near Merlin’s waist. “But he left you pants for tomorrow.”

“Yes, otherwise I’d be standing here in a towel.” Merlin realizes, then, that he could be wrapped in a towel anyway; it would be far more modest.

“And he replaced your things with…”

“This mesh thing.”

“What is a mesh thing?”

“You know, a mesh, see-through shirt.”

Arthur’s eyes are not meeting his, but Merlin can’t tell where he’s looking. “So, you thought to spare me that immodesty by just coming down and,” he licks his lips, “taking nearly everything off.”

“I didn’t think _you’d_ come tonight because of earlier.” Merlin can feel warmth against his side, but he doesn’t think it’s intentional. Arthur must not notice how close he is, and Merlin is just hypersensitive. “And anyway, I think you’re wrong.”

“About?”

“Everything.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“There are lots of ways to improve the world. Not just politics and law.”

“Such as?”

“Speaking out against your father, for one,” Merlin answers without really thinking.

Arthur pulls back, and Merlin thinks he feels fingertips brush against his waist. “Wow.”

“I’m sorry. That crossed a line.”

“No, you’re right. I’m just not sure someone like me is the right face of progressive idealism.”

“Someone like you?”

“My name is Arthur Pendragon. I am from the oldest family in Britain. Not one of. _The_. Even if I don’t touch the money, it’s there. I can’t escape it.” He paces in a circle. “I hate sounding like I’m whining about this. But even if I don’t actually have a completely privileged life, I pass. It looks like I do. I wear it. And I can’t ever fully escape my real privilege.”

“So you think you have to use it, specifically, to help people as an attorney? Why not just embrace it and be a philanthropist? Donate to everything your father opposes.”

“Because I swore I wouldn’t touch it.”

“Pride.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You can’t use his money to—”

“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.”

“I don’t think that’s what she was talking about. And anyway, doesn’t she go on to say something about it only mattering if that house is the sole source of support?”

“What? Who?”

“Audre Lorde.” Merlin shrugs. “Whom you just quoted.”

“That wasn’t my point.”

“But you arrive at it. You _can_ use his tools to dismantle it because you don’t need it. In this case, they actually _can_ dismantle it.”

“No, because then I just become the father. That’s the point.” Arthur looks mildly victorious, then sad. “I did read that essay.”

“Did you do a course on race?”

“Well yes, but that was gender and sexuality, actually.” His eyes rake down Merlin’s body again, and Merlin can’t breathe. “Why did you read that? Didn’t you read science?”

“Gender and sexuality.” Merlin’s voice comes out husky and he takes a steadying breath. He grips the edge of the washing machine. Arthur looks up into his eyes. Then the washer clicks, and the spin cycle begins, shaking Merlin so violently, he has to look away and let go.

“You want to watch something?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to sit on the floor. It’s cold.”

“Are you?” Arthur reaches out and runs his hand across Merlin’s arm. “You have goosebumps. You must be freezing.” Arthur looks around. I think there’s linens in the next room.”

“What?”

“It’s storage. I accidentally went in a few weeks ago.”

“Okay…”

“And I’ll bet I can nick a blanket or two.”

“You don’t have to—” Arthur squeezes his arm and Merlin stops. He watches Arthur slip out of the room without another word.

They make a cozy little fort, just in time to switch the clothes to the dryer. Arthur tosses the top blanket over Merlin and tells him to sit while he does the work. When he climbs back in, he seems to neither notice nor mind that his arm is fully pressed against Merlin’s, or that their legs are very nearly intertwined. “Is that your foot or a block of ice?”

Merlin wiggles his toes. “Yes.”

Arthur sighs, _very_ put-upon. “Give it here.” He takes Merlin’s feet, one after the other, and tucks them close to his leg. Not quite under—not quite intertwined—but very nearly. “Honestly, is your whole body like that?” And then he reaches beneath the blanket and traces his fingers along Merlin’s thigh. He pauses, then pushes his palm flat and almost grips his flesh. “That’s better, but only just.” He pulls his hand back out and resumes scrolling on his phone.

“That’s nothing,” Merlin says. He slips his hand up the back of Arthur’s shirt and pushes the cold against the heat of Arthur’s skin. Arthur yelps and grabs him. He claps onto Merlin’s wrists, while Merlin scrambles to get free and press his cold fingers against Arthur’s warmth. Arthur gets to his knees, phone forgotten, flush against Merlin in a mock wrestling move. He gets Merlin’s hands up by his head, pressed to the floor. Merlin is laughing and panting while Arthur says, “I don’t think so,” in a low voice. And then they stop. Merlin watches Arthur part, then wet, his lips. He seems to hover over him. Merlin’s heart pounds, and his breath comes even shorter. And then Arthur blinks. He takes a deep, audible breath of his own, and lets it out. “Laundry,” he says. He sits up.

Merlin follows. He realizes he has actually lost his mind and that there is no possible way Arthur Pendragon was just about to ravish him in public.

They watch the most recent episode of The Last Leg and go on like nothing happened. Nothing _did_. As Merlin strips to fall into bed, he realizes that this week, his clothes smell like Arthur. In bed, he realizes his skin does, too.

Then, like a slap in the face, he realizes he could have just worn his dirty clothes from the night before. It would be more embarrassing if Arthur had realized and said anything.

 

It’s raining when Merlin wakes. He showers and pulls on his clothes; the smell is fresh and clean and distracting. He remembers the feeling of Arthur’s body above his, his wrists clasped in Arthur’s fists. If he fails today, he will only see Arthur one more time, at the final, when everyone is busy with friends and family. He cannot let that happen. He’s the first one to the bus, and he sits and visualizes his showstopper pie. It is going to be amazing. It _has_ to be. The ride is quiet. Everyone seems focused. Arthur catches his eye twice, but Merlin just gives a brief smile and looks away. He cannot afford the distraction.

“This is it,” he tells Vivienne before the start. “I have to pull this off or I’m out, no question.”

“Good luck,” she replies. She looks like she means it.

“Good morning, bakers. It’s time for your Showstopper Challenge!” Sandi smiles at each of them.

Noel slides his hands in the pockets of his tiny trousers. “This time, Paul and Prue would like to see a double-crusted pie.”

“That can be a lattice crust or some other variation.”

“But it must be centerpiece worthy.”

“A picnicker’s dream.”

“Without the fruit flies.”

“A pleasant dream.”

“But real life.”

“You have three and a half hours.”

“On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

“Bake!”

Merlin starts with the crust again. Short crust pastry, again. He is ready to place it, wrapped in plastic, in the refrigerator when the fudges arrive. “Merlin,” Prue says with a tentative smile. “How are you doing today?”

Merlin thinks it’s telling that she doesn’t start with his baking. “It’s too bad about the rain after such a beautiful day yesterday.”

Paul smirks. “True. Are you feeling like it’s a totally different day, then?”

“Does the rain help?” Sandi asks. “That’s what we really want to know.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too,” Prue admits. “Please tell us about your double crusted pie.”

“It is a berry jubilee pie.”

“Okay, explain,” Paul demands.

“Raspberry, blackberry, blueberry, and strawberry filling, and the pastry has a hint of citrus zest in it.”

“And this?” Prue asks, pointing.

“Oh, kirsch. Just a dash.”

Paul nods. “How are you doing the upper crust?”

“A tight lattice.”

“Just a lattice?” Paul’s brows quirk.

“Well, I’m going for uniformity. I don’t think it needs anything too elaborate. It’s a berry pie.”

“It will need to be perfect.”

Sandi taps the workstation. “No pressure, then. Get to it!” They laugh, and Merlin tries to join in.

They visit Arthur next. He has a massive bowl of peaches he’s been peeling, stoning, and slicing. He’s tossing them in sugar when the judges arrive, and Merlin can smell the juice it’s releasing. He can also smell his shirt, and he feels himself flush at the combination. _What is it about peaches?_ He really wants to just bury his face in his shirt and take it in. Instead, he starts to prep the blueberries. They cook down a bit before he makes the rest of the filling, so Merlin puts his crust in the refrigerator and gets to work.

The filling is a red so dark it’s black in the sauce pan. He makes it thick, and then rolls his crust. He gets the bottom crust down, and then pours in the thick filling. He’s afraid to think it looks good. Then, he slices the lattice pieces.

Assembling the upper crust is a technical skill like plaiting bread. Merlin has done this many, many times. This aspect of the pie is something he knows he can do. He assembles it on wax paper because the short crust is so delicate. The filling is still warm from the thickening, and he can’t risk melting the butter. Instead, the tricky part is the slide from the paper to the pie. Cameras close in. He does it fast, sure, and steady. He hears Arthur let out a little breath and a chuckle. Merlin looks up. Arthur’s eyes sparkle. “You did it. Better get it in the over before you can drop it or something.”

Merlin lets himself smile and presses the pastry together to seal the edge. He crimps it by hand, applies the egg wash, and slides it in to bake. Meanwhile, Arthur is plaiting crust and shaping pastry. It’s an entirely different level of competition at his workstation, and Merlin feels a little sick. He goes to make some tea. One cup. He drinks it while he waits. He tries not to watch Arthur, he really does, but he can’t stop. No one said anything about Arthur’s tight jeans yesterday, but they have to be as snug as Merlin’s, and they are lethal.

“Tell him.” Merlin jumps. He didn’t see or hear Gwen approach.

“Jesus. You’re like a ninja.”

“Tell him.” Her voice is quiet, but he still shushes her. “Please.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh please. Everyone knows what I’m talking about.”

“They do? Oh god. Does he?”

“Merlin.” She gives him a little squeeze. “What are you afraid of?”

“Making an utter arse of myself. He is _so_ not interested in me. Mithian, maybe.”

“Merlin, honestly, some days you seem so intelligent, and others…”

“I don’t think you all see what is so obvious here to me. Even if he was into guys, which he isn’t, he’s so, so far out of my league. He has a Wikipedia page. Did you know that?”

“You’re about to.”

“It has his dating history.”

“What? No way. Wait. You googled him? That seems unfair.”

“One girlfriend. That’s it.”

“Uh huh and when was that?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“He’s probably bi then because people don’t look at people like he looks at you unless they’re interested.”

“ _Gwen_.”

“I’m right.” She walks away. Merlin closes his eyes and all he can see is Arthur staring at his nearly-naked body the night before. _Maybe I should—_ His timer goes.

“Not enough time to think,” he whispers.

“What’s that?” Anne asks from behind the camera.

“Nothing, just talking to myself.”

“Oh, well, we’re rooting for you, Merlin. Let’s see this pie.”

Merlin opens the oven.

 

“Gwen, please bring up your showstopper pie,” Noel says with a grin.

It’s a lovely golden brown. Prue and Paul smile at it. “This is pear and quince?” Paul asks.

“Yes, with ginger short crust pastry. I’ve done a herringbone plait.”

“It is very neat and novel. I like it,” says Prue.

“I…” Paul winces. “I actually don’t.”

“What?”

“I don’t. But it is done well. Let’s see how it tastes.” He takes out a slice. “Holds together well.” He turns it on its side. “Nice flaky bottom.” They each take a bite.

“I’m getting a lot of ginger.”

“Rather too much, I’d say.”

“Perhaps. But the texture is excellent.”

“Thank you, Gwen.”

Percy is next. His cherry pie has a top crust with crimped cut-outs. They like the crust, but think the filling is too sweet. Lance’s apple pie earns rave reviews—even if they did just have apple tarts the day before.

“Gwaine, please bring forward your showstopper.” He sets it down on the table.

Paul stares at it. “It looks underdone. This is strawberry rhubarb?”

“Yes.” Gwaine is quiet, almost cautious. Merlin realizes he’s leaning forward.

“Perhaps the inside will be a different story,” Prue suggests. Paul cuts a slice and they both look at it.

“That is very underbaked.”

“And very soggy. Strawberry rhubarb has that potential.” Prue looks worried. She and Paul share a look.

“Thank you, Gwaine.”

“Merlin, please bring up your pie.”

The aisle feels long. Merlin sets it down and takes a step back. Paul raises his eyebrows. Prue clasps her hands together. Noel grins broadly. “Merlin,” says Paul. “You have had quite the week.”

“I have.”

“And now this… berry jubilee. It looks…”

“It looks marvelous.” Prue beams.

Paul nods. He cuts a thick slice and it slides right now. Merlin can barely stand up, he’s so relieved. Paul turns the piece and the bottom flakes. Merlin feels lightheaded. They each take a bite. It seems to take ages; Merlin watches Paul chew. And chew. And chew. And then swallow. Merling tries not to fidget. Paul and Prue share another look. Paul sets down his fork. “Merlin,” he says. “This is fantastic.”

Merlin cannot hear his own exhalation because it’s drowned out by those behind him. Prue nods. “I agree. And look at how this holds together. Just lovely. It’s like a taste of summer.”

“Thank you, Merlin.”

“Thanks.”

Nimueh has made a fig pie with walnuts and chèvre. Mithian’s apple crumble pie does not go over as well, despite the creative mix of textures.

“And finally Arthur. Please bring forward your showstopper pie.” Merlin watches him walk up; the pie almost doesn’t look real. The crust is glossy and golden, and the plaited and latticed top is detailed and intricate.

“Wow,” Prue breathes. “Just, wow. This is peach?”

“Yes, with a hint of cinnamon in the crust.”

“That crust looks right,” Paul acknowledges. “It is certainly a showstopper. Let’s see inside.” He slides out a piece. The bottom is dry and flaky. “Good.” They attack it with their forks. Once again, the chewing takes a long time.

“Mm,” Prue almost purrs. “How decadent. It makes me wish I had some cream to dollop on it.”

“I thought about including it.”

Paul sets his fork down. He stares at Arthur, and then he lifts his hand. _On the showstopper?_ Merlin claps, as do the rest of the bakers.

 

The discussion seems to take forever. Merlin stands under an umbrella as Vivienne stares him down. “Well?” she asks.

“I know that went okay, but so did almost everyone else. And mine was nowhere near as good as Arthur’s or Lance’s or a lot of the others.” He looks at the tent. “I don’t know if it was enough. But I really don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

“I just really hope it was enough.”

Vivienne switches off the recording. “Me too.”

Merlin walks back toward the tent and sees Arthur being interviewed by Edric. He looks far more worried and stressed that he should; there’s virtually no way he’ll go home. He’ll be on the other end of the spectrum. Merlin tells himself he needs to prepare for the worst. He will _not_ cry. He’ll just say he’s grateful for the experience. And then he’ll ride home with Arthur one last time. _“Tell him.”_ He hears Gwen’s voice in his head.

“I’ll tell him,” he whispers. _I’ll tell him when he drop me off because I won’t have to see him again until the final._

Then he stops. Tell him what? That he thinks he’s attractive. _Hey, if you ever decide to explore your sexuality, I’m here!_ No. No way. “I can’t tell him that,” he whispers.

Mithian is crying in the tent. “I’m going out,” she sniffles.

“No, I definitely am,” Merlin argues. “Did you see my first two bakes?”

“Come on guys, chins up. We’re all going to keep baking, no matter what,” Gwaine tells them. “We’ve made it this far, and we’ve made friends for life.”

Merlin rubs Mithian’s shoulders and realizes it’s true.

“Bakers, it has been another excellent week, and I am so proud of—” Sandi stops. She composes herself and starts again. “So proud of you all.” She takes a steadying breath. “And this week I get to award our Star Baker. This week’s Star Baker is a master of short and hot water crust. He never has a soggy bottom, and he’s the apple of everyone’s eye. The Star Baker is Lance!”

Lance looks genuinely stunned. Shocked. Everyone cheers and he squeezes, then kisses Gwen’s hand. Merlin melts a little, despite his grief. They quieten. Everyone takes hands and holds on to each other. Mithian’s breathing is audible as she attempts to hold herself together. Merlin wraps his arm around her. Gwen has his other hand held so tight, it’s numb.

Noel huffs. Sandi’s face crumples, but she pulls herself together. Noel clears his throat. “That means I have to announce who won’t be joining us next week.” He breathes. “Our judges have told us this is one of the most difficult decisions they have had to make.”

Gwen whimpers a little. Mithian shakes. Merlin feels as if he’s in a dream. A very bad dream. _Will not cry_ , he thinks. _Grateful for the experience_.

“The person who will not be with us next week… is…”

Mithian shakes again, and Merlin rubs her back. Arthur is on her other side, and he reaches around her, too. His hand meets Merlin’s arm and Merlin closes his eyes.

“Gwaine.”

“What?” Merlin gasps. Mithian, too, gasps. They both turn to Gwaine. He is nodding. He smiles.

“Gwaine,” Sandi says. She and Noel come toward him with outstretched arms.

“Right decision,” Gwaine says.

“No,” Merlin replies, but his voice is drowned out by everyone standing to embrace Gwaine.

Arthur’s hand finally lets go, and they both join the mourning.

 

“If you all think you can get rid of me this easily,” Gwaine announces on the bus, “you’ve another think coming. But I will use this to guilt you all into favours for years to come.”

“Promise?” asks Percy. Gwaine presses into the seat beside him and Merlin looks away.

“Merlin.”

“Yes?” Merlin turns to find Arthur looking at him closely. His voice is low.

“I’m glad you’re staying.”

Merlin smiles. “I am too, even if this gets harder every week.” Losing Gwaine will be hard. No one expected to lose Gwaine.

“It does, and I was afraid you… Well, anyway, I just, I had to tell you—I wanted to earlier and there wasn’t really a good time because you were upset and everything. I didn’t mean to wait like this.”

“What?” Merlin’s heart races.

“I… I need to work. I have to… That is, I can’t drive you home today.”

“Oh. _Oh_. Oh that’s fine.”

“No, you don’t understand. I want to, but I have to be at the office in,” he looks at his phone, “in Jesus, like, half-hour ago, actually.” He looks at Merlin, in his eyes, then to his lips, and then back into his eyes. He leans toward Merlin. “I’m… I’m really glad you’ll be here next week.”

“Me too,” Merlin whispers.

 

It’s raining at the train station.

It’s raining at home. Merlin leans against the kitchen table. He goes to bed early. He closes his eyes. And then he presses his face into his shirt and inhales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first, I'm sorry! I knew he was going this week, and it was actually really sad to write. I felt like I do when my faves leave the show irl. But, you know, he definitely isn't gone from their lives, just the tent.
> 
> Second, I feel like George R R Martin here, like, I'm gonna get the next part out faster guys, promise... Then a month later or something... At least this chapter is suuuuper long.
> 
> Third, I do not like drunkenness. Just personal stuff. I enjoy wine and other good beverages, but the idea of drinking to excess bothers me because I've seen people really struggle with it. I included the scene with Merlin drinking a few glasses of ale and losing his ability to rationally do laundry because of the spirit of the show and the spirit of fic. It is important to me that it does not come across as a glorification of drunkenness. Also, three drinks in a night is my just-on-the-line limit; Merlin could probably handle more than that, but four seemed like an awful lot to me.
> 
> Fourth, I'm going on vacation next week to Amsterdam, Luxembourg, and Brussels, so, hopefully lots of writing on the plane and inspiration in bakeries. And a few good glasses of wine, but not enough to make my head ache the next morning.
> 
> Fifth, I love you all and thank you, again, for the incredible support you're giving me on this fic. It is entirely what has kept me going with this because, as I've repeated ad nauseum, it's really stretching me. That said, I hope the pining/tension here is a little peek at the steam to come. 
> 
> Sixth, the song quoted is "Creature Comfort" by Arcade Fire.


	6. Shakespeare Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's week six of The Great British Bake Off, and this week, our favourite bakers are creating Shakespeare-inspired treats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months. Oof.
> 
> But on the bright side, my trip to Europe was great, and then I started my new job. My new library is fantastic, but it's really kicking me in the butt--hence the two months.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, especially those of you who have left wonderful comments and hopefully forgiven me for not responding for an inexcusably long time. You sustain me. I will try to do better, especially with those responses. I DO appreciate them, and I love you.

Merlin stares at his phone. The text app is open, and the cursor seems to stare back at him, unblinking. He types: “Hey, it’s Merlin.” _Too grammatical_ , he thinks. _It looks too formal with the punctuation._ He deletes and types: “Hey its Merlin”. _He’ll think I’m an idiot_. He deletes again. He grimaces. “U up?” He sniffs out a little laugh and deletes it. “Hi, Arthur, it’s Merlin.” He closes his eyes. The door buzzes.

Merlin drops his phone like it burns his fingers and goes to the window. His mum is below, head tossed back as she laughs. Gwaine stands next to her, shrugging and looking like a deviant. Merlin presses the button and lets them in. He isn’t sure whom to hug first. In the end, they burst through the door and envelop him in a sort of Merlin-centered hug sandwich. “Hi,” he manages. He tears up.

“None of that!” Gwaine orders. “I’m telling you, this has been the most relaxing week of my life. I made myself a cake to celebrate.”

Hunith smiles at Gwaine. “Right back into the kitchen, then?”

“With no time-limits, no competition.” Gwaine stretches his long arms out to his sides. “Endless possibilities.”

Merlin sighs. “I really just still can’t believe it was you.”

“That’s because you were in your own head the whole time and didn’t notice how poorly I did.” Gwaine flops down on the sofa and the oven timer goes.

“Just a minute.” Merlin gestures to his mother. “Uh, sit here, and I’ll be right back.” The flat isn’t big, and he hears Gwaine ask about Hunith’s trip from Ealdor as he pulls shortbread biscuits from the oven. He leaves them on the cooling rack and crosses back into the living area. Gwaine is holding his phone and staring at him. “What?”

“Seriously, Merlin?”

“What?”

“It’s worse than I thought.”

Hunith leans forward. “What is?”

Gwaine wiggles the phone. “This is Merlin’s mobile.”

“Yes…”

“OH, bollocks.”

“Merlin!”

“You absolute git.”

“Give it here, Gwaine.”

“You haven’t even messaged him? Not even once?”

“Messaged who?”

“I had no idea it was so bad.”

“Gwaine, give it here.”

“No wonder it’s been so slow.”

“What has?” Hunith asks. “What’s going on?”

“Merlin hasn’t messaged Arthur at all.”

“Oh god.” Merlin rubs his eyes.

“Who’s Arthur?”

“What?!”

“Nobody."

Nobody?! How have you not told your mother about Arthur?”

“There’s nothing to tell!”

“Tell me about him, please. Are you seeing someone then?”

“No, Mum, it isn’t like—” The door buzzes again. “Oh, sorry. That’s the camera crew come to see me practise.”

“Oh!” Hunith smooths her hair.

“You look lovely,” Gwaine assures her. He raises eyebrows at Merlin. “You need to change shirts. I’ll let them up.”

Merlin looks down at himself, decides he agrees, and shrugs. “Thanks.” He jogs into his room and swaps his flour-dusted polo for a soft grey Henley. He emerges just in time to see a truncated camera crew step through the doorway.

The main cameraman is impossibly young and small, with a tidy fade buzzed into his hair. He looks at Gwaine, then at Merlin, back at Gwaine with a confused frown, and then at Merlin in near-shock. “But what about…” He stops and seems to shake himself. “Merlin, hello. It’s um, good to see you, too, Gwaine. We weren’t expecting _you_.”

“No worries, mate. Not like that.”

Relief washes over the man. “Oh.”

“I’m trying to help,” Gwaine adds.

“Help what?” Merlin asks.

“Help you stay in, of course, Merlin. Come in, everyone. Tea, anybody?” Gwaine proceeds into the kitchen as if he lives there and fills the kettle. He turns. “Where is the tea, anyway?”

“Next to the stove, darling,” Hunith answers. Merlin stands beside the coffee table as the crew sets up and his flat bustles with activity. “Right, I guess just… make yourselves at home then.” Gwaine winks at him and pulls a mixing bowl from the drying rack.

The cameraman introduces himself as Antoine. He seems to have quickly bonded with Gwaine, and Merlin stands a bit awkwardly to the side, watching them flirt with his mum. Gwaine slides Merlin’s well-worn _Tartine_ down the bar toward him. “Well,” he says, “get to it.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Merlin runs his hand across the cover. He turns without thinking to one of his mother’s favourites: the lemon buttermilk pudding cake. Antoine gestures to another camera operator, and she starts to record. “Someone gave me this book back in uni, and it really changed my level of skill. Someday I’m going to visit the states and I’ll go there in person. To the bakery, that is.”

“Who gave you the book?” Antoine asks.

Merlin chuckles. “Will, actually. My flatmate.” He picks up a measuring cup. “Every once in a while he gets something right. When he’s not trying, usually.”

Four hours later, Merlin is a sugar-dusted mess as he waves goodbye to the crew. Gwaine’s feet are propped on the coffee table as he sips at the limoncello he found in the back of the refrigerator. Hunith’s cheeks are pink from mirth and company as she sits in the armchair opposite him. “Now,” she says, relaxing into the cushions. “Tell me what’s going on. Who is _Arthur_?”

Merlin groans. “Mum…”

“You thought I’d forget, but that just made it worse. It’s obvious all of these people know something.”

Gwaine nods. “That’s because they visited Arthur last week.”

“What?” Merlin pushes down the fluttering in his stomach. “How do you know?”

“Antoine mentioned something about his sister.”

“But he was so busy with work last week…”

“What does he do?” Hunith asks.

“He’s like a barrister or something,” Gwaine answers.

“He’s head of pro bono for the De Bois Group.”

“Oh my!” Hunith exclaims. Merlin can virtually see the cogs turning in her mind. Arthur is _noble_ and _good_ , so she’s already planning their wedding.

“No, Mum, it isn’t like that.”

“Why not, dear?”

“Well for one, he’s straight.”

Gwaine scoffs. “Whatever that means, it isn’t true.”

“’Tis. And he’s… posh.”

“What?” Gwaine and Hunith ask in unison.

“He’s—”

“He doesn’t even talk to his father outside of holidays, you git,” Gwaine cuts in.

“Stop calling me that! It’s doesn’t matter. He was raised that way—they can’t help it.”

“Posh? Oh come on, Merlin,” Hunith says. “I thought I raised you—”

“Mum, he’s Arthur Pendragon.”

Hunith stops, mouth open. Her eyes narrow, then go wide. “Oh, it’s _that_ Arthur.”

Merlin sits next to Gwaine. “She’s studied his family, you know. She’s published papers about Pendragons in the Modern Age. She wrote a book about his great-great-great… whatever grandfather.”

“Grand _mother_ , Merlin. You know how I feel about gender in Arthuriana.”

“Oh,” Gwaine says, “then you need to meet Gwen!”

“Who?”

“Guinevere.”

“What?! Merlin! How did you fail to mention this? You, Arthur, Gwaine, _and_ a Gwen?”

Merlin groans and Gwaine laughs. “Just wait until you meet Lance.”

Hunith reaches across the coffee table and smacks her son on the knee. “Spill!”

 

Lance’s car is waiting at the curb when Merlin gets off the train. He places his duffel in the back. It’s full—he’s checked it a few times. He’s under an umbrella that is pummeled by a heavy midsummer rain, and he closes it before he slides into the backseat. That brief time is enough to let his hair wet and stick to his forehead. He gives it a little shake as Gwen laughs at him from the front. “A tempest,” she says. “How appropriate.”

“I’ll do my best to not be shipwrecked,” Lance declares, and he pulls onto the street. “Well, Merlin, we’ve both decided we can’t predict a thing for this week.”

“No, but I’m hoping the cake will be a nice almost-break, after some of what we’ve done recently.”

Gwen sighs. “It certainly will. Of course this one here has only gotten better as we’ve gone.” She grins at Lance. “Mr. Star Baker.”

Lance places his hand on his heart. “I’m humbled to wear such a masterfully-crafted badge,” he says. Merlin watches Gwen bite her lip and smile. His heart quickens as they near the inn.

The rain falls so heavy the drive is slow. Only when the car is parked can Merlin see much through the windowpanes. “Brace yourselves,” Gwen tells them. She pulls up the hood of her raincoat and jumps out. Lance follows, opening an oversized black umbrella, and Merlin takes a deep breath, opens the door, and opens his own.

Gwen holds Merlin’s bag out as he nears, and he shoulders it and looks around the carpark. His heart nearly stops, and then bounces back, double-time. Arthur crouches beneath the open hatch of his Land Rover only a few spots over. He frowns up at the sky. “Oh dear,” says Gwen. “I guess you better let him share your umbrella.”

Merlin forces himself to calm down. _This is ridiculous_ , he thinks. _It’s Gwaine and Mum_. He shakes his head and pulls in a full breath, reminding himself that this is all in their heads. He takes a few steps. Arthur’s hair is damp and half on-end, as if he’s pushed his fingers through it in a fit of pique. His t-shirt clings to his pecs. It’s cut low, again. “Whose ring is that?” Merlin asks.

Arthur’s eyes lower from the dark clouds and meet Merlin’s, and Merlin stops. Arthur’s eyelashes are dark and wet, and the blue reminds him of the summer skies of his childhood. His face is smooth and dewy, and Merlin sees Arthur’s eyes fall to his mouth. He can’t help but let his tongue reach out to wet his lips, and when Arthur’s own lips part, he sucks in a breath.

“I… I have an umbrella,” Merlin says, nearly whispering.

Arthur blinks a few times. “Thank you.” He lifts his suitcase and steps close to Merlin, then reaches out to close the hatch.

Merlin looks across the carpark, grey and wet-black tarmac. The lamppost lights are barely visible beneath the heavy downpour. He realizes Gwen and Lance have already gone inside. He holds the umbrella between himself and Arthur, and he can feel Arthur’s warmth through the cool wet sleeve of his shirt.

“It’s my mother’s,” Arthur says.

“What?”

“The ring.” Arthur fingers the thick ring hanging from his necklace.

“How was the hearing?”

Arthur’s mouth quirks up into a crooked little smile. He nods. “It went well. She’s… It’s going to be okay.” They take a few steps together, shoulders bumping. Rain pours in a torrent around them. “Merlin, this is the tiniest umbrella I have ever seen. Where did you even find it?”

Merlin feels his ears heat up. “Um, well, it’s… I like it.” He tries to ignore Arthur’s quizzical stare, but his neck starts to sweat. “I got it on holiday, okay, and I didn’t realize it was so small.”

“You didn’t look?”

“No, they showed it to me.”

“Okay…”

“But they were talking really fast, and my French isn’t _that_ good, and I didn’t want to look like I didn’t know what they were saying, so I just… bought it.”

Arthur’s laugh is throaty and low and Merlin has to stop his body from pressing itself against him as they walk. They are an island of calm in the downpour, wet to the knees, and Merlin is so alive and awake he has to fight his hand from shaking. He opens the door, and Arthur steps through. Merlin stands for a moment and just breathes in the thick air as the spell breaks.

All the candles are lit in the lobby, and it looks like the setting of some romantic novel as that light mingles with the dim daylight that filters in through the rain-slicked windows. The woman behind the desk looks at them and smiles. “Room for two?” she asks.

Arthur’s mouth falls open and closes a few times before he answers. “No, no, um, I’m… Just a single, please. It should be under Pendragon.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” She types in his name and nods. “Yes, it’s right here. Room 207.” She turns and pulls the key from the rack, which she hands to him.

“Thank you.”

“Have a nice stay. Next?”

“Emrys.” Merlin watches her type.

“Another single?”

“Mm hmm.” Merlin squeezes out a smile.

“Okay, you’ll be in 208.” She looks between them. “Just across the hall.”

“Thanks.” Merlin takes the key. He follows Arthur to the stairs. “I suppose we should plan dinner. Usually Gwaine would.”

Arthur’s breath hitches. ‘I’d like—Oh.” He coughs. “Um, do you want to let people know or find out what they want?”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course.” Arthur nods. He stops in front of 208 and slides his key in. It doesn’t turn.

“That’s my room,” Merlin says.

“Oh. Of course it is. Sorry.” He turns without looking at Merlin and unlocks 207. “Just let me know what everyone decides for dinner and I’ll be there, okay.” He closes the door with a quick click. A second passes, and Merlin hears a quiet crash and a soft groan.

“Okay…” Merlin unlocks his own room and goes in. This week, he fully unpacks. He has all of his clothes.

 

Lance organizes dinner. It’s a quiet affair at the inn’s restaurant. The group fits easily, now, and they all seem a little subdued. When Mithian drops coins in the jukebox, she picks “Pale Blue Eyes,” and everyone seems to stop and listen to it. Merlin stretches his legs out under the table and he brushes against Arthur, who looks up at him. Merlin pulls his legs back and looks away.

The walk up after dinner is short. Merlin unlocks his door slowly, unbearably conscious of Arthur behind him, doing the same. _But what if…_ He closes his eyes and grips the door handle. _What if I just…_ He hears Arthur’s door swing free. “Good night,” Merlin says instead.

“See you in the morning.”

The door closes, and Merlin hears Arthur slide the lock.

 

Merlin wakes before his alarm, somehow. He peeks outside and the predawn light barely reveals a rain-slicked landscape. The rain itself has stopped, however, and Merlin thinks it may be a lovely day after all. He shuffles to the shower and gets himself ready.

 

The ground is sodden, and even the sidewalk leaves Merlin’s shoes damp and squishy. The air is cool for the season, but the park is alive with the buzzing and humming of insects and the call and response of birdsong across the green. The sky is still grey, but the tent is irrepressibly cheery, even amidst the gloom. Merlin is conscious of the shrinking group, and his chest tightens as he remembers the week before. He cannot come so close again.

They are seven, and Nimueh is in the front row by herself. Mithian is behind her, across from Merlin. Arthur is behind him, and Merlin tells himself he will not let himself turn around more than once per round. Lance is across from Arthur, and Gwen and Percy are in the rear. And that’s it. That’s the whole group. _And only growing smaller_.

It's routine, now. Merlin gets situated, and they film the official entrance. He ties on an apron, and they’re off. “Good morrow, bakers, and well met. Welcome,” Sandi begins, “to Shakespeare Week.”

Noel nods. “This week you will be baking Renaissance-inspired treats referenced by the Bard.”

“Yes, it wasn’t just mutton and roast boar on Will’s mind. Every play mentions food or drink.”

“Or both.”

“That’s right. You’ve read all of them, right Noel?”

“That’s what I did this week. I told you.” Merlin wonders what the intro skit will include for this episode; he imagines this will tie in. “Never got around to it before.”

“We’ll start, as always, with the signature challenge.”

“And this one is inspired by Lady Macbeth,” Noel says with a grin.

“Just what we all want to hear. Paul and Prue would like you each to make a posset.”

“Preferably no poisoned,” Noel clarifies. Paul and Prue chuckle.

“Not poisoned, but accompanied by a dozen biscuits,” Sandi concludes.

“You have four hours to make your posset and biscuits.”

“On your mark.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

Merlin takes a deep breath before he starts. He puts a block of butter in the freezer while he thinks. This challenge is straightforward. Posset is a thickened cream with sugar, and lemon is most commonly used as the thickening agent. Traditionally, however, a white wine was used, and ambergris was used for flavouring. Merlin does not plan to use ambergris (naturally) or wine, but he sees bottles on a few stations. He has a small portion of brandy, but it is for a cranberry compote topping.

The posset needs to chill as long as possible, so Merlin starts by measuring cream and sugar. He sets it aside and juices a few clementines and a lemon. As he finishes, he switches on his cooktop and prepares to boil the cream. He wants it to have ample time to break down the water in the cream, but not too long. After a few minutes of boiling, adds the citrus juice.

Once the posset is fully mixed, Merlin strains it to prevent a skin from forming. He divides it into six glasses, which he places on a tray, covers in plastic wrap, and slides into the refrigerator.

Next, Merlin fetches the butter from the freezer and starts a rough puff dough for his biscuits. He drops it in the food processor and chops it, then tosses in the pieces with a bit of flour and puts it back in the freezer. He measures out flour, salt, and sugar, then gets the butter back out, pours half of it into the dry mixture, and once again returns the butter bowl to the freezer. He has worked up a sweat, despite the cool air. He adds milk and cold water to the flour mixture and mixes it just enough to come together. He kneads it for just a minute, then rolls it into a square, wraps it, and puts it in the refrigerator.

The cranberry compote is next. Merlin cooks down cranberries, sugar, and the brandy. He’s zesting a few more clementines when the judges arrive at his station. “Good morning, Merlin,” Paul greets him.

“Hello.” He nods to Prue and Sandi.

Prue smiles. “Tell us about your posset.”

Sandi peeks into his saucepan. “And I’m not sure how to tell you this, my dear, but that is _not_ a posset.”

Merlin laughs. “The posset is already in the refrigerator. This is a cranberry compote I’ll serve with it.”

“Cranberry,” Paul muses. “And orange?”

“Yes. Well, clementine.”

“What are you planning for the biscuit component?”

“Cinnamon palmiers.”

Paul’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”

“With rough puff.”

“Ambitious,” Prue notes. “You could’ve done a shortbread or a long de chat.”

“I’m more confident about this than shortbread, really.” He stirs the compote.

“And the palmiers will be finished in four hours?” Paul looks skeptical.

“They were in practice.”

Paul just stares at him, and Merlin shrugs.

“I look forward to it,” Prue says with a smile.

“And I look forward to it as well,” Sandi agrees.

“Thank you.” Merlin stirs again. The compote is nearly done.

“Cheers, Merlin.” Paul shares a sly little smile and a silvery eye-sparkle before he turns. Merlin takes it as a confidence boost and he grins to himself as he focuses.

When the compote is chilling beside the posset, Merlin pulls out the dough. He rolls it to a rectangle, sprinkles frozen butter on the middle, folds it up, sprinkles, folds the top down, and gives it a turn. Then, he rolls it again and repeats the action. He wraps it back up and puts it back in the refrigerator. It will be some time before he’s ready to bake, but he goes ahead and turns on the oven. When he straightens, Gwen has appeared at his side. She leans against the counter and stretches.

Gwen is dressed in a gorgeous plum-coloured wrap dress today, and it’s a shame the apron covers it up. Her hair is up, but loose, and a tiny heart pendant hangs around her neck. “Well?” she asks.

“Well what?”

“Going well?”

“Who knows?”

“It looks like everyone is doing well so far. Four hours is positively leisurely.”

“That depends.”

“True. How was the week, though? We’ve barely had time to chat.”

“Oh, you know. Work. Practice. The usual these days.”

“Okay, but did you…” She makes a gesture with her hand.

“Did I what?”

“Message him. Tell him.”

Merlin sighs. “No, of course not.”

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Why not?”

“Because I’m… You seem very confident this would have some sort of magical effect, but I am not. Not at all. And I almost did, but then I was interrupted and forgot all about it.”

Gwen rolls her eyes. Merlin figures she doesn’t need to hear about the nights he didn’t forget and lied awake thinking about all the possible responses a “hello” text might receive. She scratches her cheek. “Fine. That’s it then. I’m coming to town on Wednesday. We’ll have drinks, I’ll steal your phone, and text him myself. It’s what any good girlfriend would do in this situation.”

“You are? That’s great! Not my phone, but the drinks. You can stay over if you like.”

“It’s a date.” Gwen grins.

“A date?” Lance asks as he drifts over to them. “Excuse me?”

Gwen raises her chin. “Hey, I am an independent woman.”

“That you are,” Lance agrees. “My apologies, my lady.”

“I wish I was,” Mithian sighs as she crosses the aisle to the group. “All I ever do is work and bake these days.”

“You should come too, if you’re in town,” Gwen suggests.

“I’ll check my schedule.” Mithian smiles bright and wide.

“Bakers, your time is half over!” Noel calls. “You have only two hours left!” He, too, saunters over to the group. “What’s happening here? Merlin, are you getting help?”

“Not yet.”

“That’s good. Where are your biscuits?”

“My dough is chilling.”

“So you’re throwing a party? I didn’t get an invitation.”

“Yours is standing, of course.”

“Oh, okay. Well don’t tell Sandi. She’ll be mad with jealousy, but she’s very awkward at parties.”

“She is?”

“It’s because she’s shy.”

“What’d he say?” Sandi asks, appearing behind him.

“I said you have great style.”

Sandi cocks her head to the side. “I’m not sure how to take that, coming from you.” She looks pointedly at Noel’s ruffled sleeves.

Noel laughs. “This is my favourite shirt.”

“As well it should be,” says Sandi. She lifts Merlin’s brandy bottle and sniffs, then peeks in. “Well, that’s a shame.” She sets it down with a hollow clatter and walks off toward Nimueh. “Now you’ll have something, I’m sure,” she says. The cameras follow.

Later, Merlin mixes the cinnamon filling for his palmiers. He rolls the dough out, coats it, and curls up each side. He cuts out more than a dozen, but the extras will be good insurance. They look tidy on the baking sheet, and he lets out a long breath as he slides them into the oven.

They’re still baking when Noel gives the five minute warning. Merlin tries to calm himself as he spoons the compote onto the posset. And then— _then_ , finally—he lets himself look back at Arthur. He sees a disaster.

Arthur looks frantic. His hair is stuck up at odd angles, as if he’s run sticky fingers through it more than a few times. His face is flushed as he tries to cool a tray of biscuits with a baking sheet. Merlin can’t help himself; he goes straight to Arthur’s station. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Arthur looks at him and swallows. “Merlin.” His eyes shift across his wreck of a workstation. “I…”

“Where’s your posset?”

“Refrigerator.”

“Got it. Get those off the tray.”

“Right.”

Merlin retrieves Arthur’s posset glasses from the rear refrigerator. Arthur has pressed plastic wrap against the custard to prevent a skin from forming. He sets the tray on the counter and starts to carefully peel off the plastic. Then he frowns. Arthur is carefully plating the hot biscuits. “How long have these been cooling?” Merlin asks.

“Two hours.”

“Oh.” Merlin peels back the next piece of plastic.

Arthur stops. He stares at Merlin. “They aren’t ready, are they?”

Merlin bites his lip. He gives the faintest shake of his head. Arthur sniffs, frowns, and then gets back to work. He gingerly plates the biscuits. “What happened?” Merlin whispers, adjusting one of the plates.

Arthur sprinkles snipped flower petals into the glasses. “I had to start over.” He grimaces. “A few times.” He drops a clump.

Merlin takes the petals. “Here. Let me help.” He sprinkles the rest of the petals and moves the tray to the end of the station. Arthur stands back and watches in silence.

“One minute!” Sandi shouts.

Merlin looks up and feels a quick drop in his gut. “Oh,” he whispers. He spins and jogs back to his station, where he snatches a tea towel and flings open the oven. Arthur appears at his side as Merlin slaps the tray down on the counter. Arthur already has a spatula, and he slides it under the first palmier without asking. Merlin grabs another spatula and moves the next. “Tilt them against the rim,” Arthur says. “That way they’ll cool before we’re even back from break.”

“Right,” Merlin agrees.

“Five, four, three, two one!” Noel calls.

“Bakers, step away from your possets. Place thine possets on the ends of your stations.”

Arthur sets the final palmier in place with a triumphant grin. Merlin smiles back and lets out a small laugh. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“You’re welcome.” Arthur’s eyes are dark and Merlin feels breathless. He looks up. He stops. Every eye and camera in the tent is fixed on them. And abruptly, everyone turns away.

Outside the tent, the breeze is still cool. Vivienne wears a thick jumper that Merlin thinks is probably deceptively rustic-looking. “Merlin,” she smiles at him. “It is just wonderful to see you back this week.”

“I’m so glad I’m here, though it is different without Gwaine.”

“But I hear he visited you this week.”

“He did, yeah.”

Vivienne gives him a long look. “Do you and Gwaine see each other often?”

Merlin frowns. “Why does everyone seem so interested in my personal life?”

“Why do you think?”

“They feel bad for me?”

Vivienne smirks. “Sure. So, posset and biscuits. How did it go?”

“I barely finished, as I’m sure you already know.”

“I do,” Vivienne says with a snort. “But I’d like you to tell me about it.”

“I knew that making any sort of pastry dough would take longer, so I expected it to be close.”

“Do you think it turned out, then?”

“Actually yes. I just hope Paul and Prue like it.”

“Okay, thank you Merlin.” She gestures to the camera operator, and she stops recording. Her eyes scan the garden. “I wonder where that boy is, anyway…”

Merlin finds Arthur at the tea station. “Vivienne was looking for you.”

Arthur stirs his cup. “Do you want a cup?”

“Oh. Uh, yes. That would be nice. Did you do a follow-up, then?” Merlin watches Arthur calmly pour water into a cup. It already holds a teabag. Merlin licks his lips and notices it’s the same mug he used last week.

“I did an interview already, with your… friend. Edric.” Arthur’s mouth twists a little.

Merlin leans against the counter. He crosses his arms over his chest. “My… friend?”

Arthur gives him a look. “Yeah, everyone knows you two have… bonded or whatever.”

“We—”

“Back in!” A runner calls, waving to them. “Wrap it up!”

“This isn’t ready,” Arthur frowns.

“It’s fine. I’ll just—”

“It isn’t fine; it isn’t ready. Take this one instead.”

“But that’s yours.”

“I’m fine. I had some earlier.”

“But—”

“ _Mer_ lin, really. Take it.” Arthur pushes the mug into Merlin’s hand, and their fingers brush.

“Let’s go!” another runner shouts.

 

Nimueh’s posset is raspberry-champagne, and her almond biscuits are light and crumbly. Mithian’s lemon posset has a mango top, and it is slightly too wet, despite a good flavour.

Merlin is next. Paul looks at it, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think this would work,” he admits. “But you have palmiers.”

“They look absolutely right,” Prue raves. “Even in that time constraint.”

“But now do they taste?” Paul asks. “And this posset. What flavour again?”

“Clementine. With some lemon. And a cranberry compote.”

“Really for even cooler weather then,” Noel comments. “Christmas flavours.”

“I suppose they are, yeah.”

Paul dips a spoon into the first glass and takes a bite. Prue does the same. They smile at each other around the bites. Prue speaks first. “That texture is just right. It’s nice and thick without being too stiff.”

“Prue!” Noel mimes shock. Prue blushes and laughs.

“That flavour, Merlin. It’s bold. I’m getting the sharpness of the citrus and the cranberry against the sweetness of the brandy and sugar.” He picks up a palmier. “So now let’s see these.” He takes a bite, as do Prue and Noel. Pastry flakes drift down to the counter as the trio chews. And then Paul holds out his hand. Merlin gasps. Everyone cheers. Merlin shakes Paul Hollywood’s hand. “You have made a truly delicious pair of items here, and in a short amount of time.”

“Thank you,” Merlin whispers.

“It’s good to have you back,” Prue says, and with a wink, she’s gone. Merlin has chills. He’s nearly in tears. He takes a sip of Arthur’s tea. He must take it just the same as Merlin.

Merlin barely hears them judge Lance’s posset, but he can’t help but lean back to hear them at Arthur’s station.

“What happened?” Paul asks.

“It wasn’t right, so I started over, but it just kept going wrong.”

“This is elderflower?” Prue asks.

“Yes.”

“You’re right. The flavour is off. But so is the texture. In four hours, there’s really no excuse for not having a posset that tastes great or has the right texture.” Paul sets the spoon down with a clack. “I’m surprised to see this from you, Arthur.”

“I know.”

“But the flower petals are nice,” Prue observes. Noel gives a tight smile as the trio moves on.

Merlin tries to catch Arthur’s eye, but he doesn’t look up at him.

 

“I am elated,” Merlin tells Edric. “Everybody wants a handshake. I didn’t think it’d be for something like posset, but there you have it.”

“That’s so great. Thanks, Merlin.” Edric switches off the camera. “You’d better get some lunch now.” Edric seems a little dejected and Merlin doesn’t know why, but he knows he needs to eat, so he makes his way to the catering tent and helps himself to some meat and veg.

The break is short, and everyone is called back for the technical. Sandi starts them off. “And now it is time for this week’s technical challenge.”

“This challenge comes from Prue. Prue, any last minute tips?” Noel asks.

Prue smiles. “Take care with the balance of spice.”

Sandi nods. “Always good advice, thank you. Now, as always, this round is judged blind, so we will say adieu for now.” She watches them go, then turns to Noel. “Today’s activity?”

“Just bowling.”

“Oh, okay.” Sandi turns to them. “This challenge comes to us from _The Winter’s Tale_.”

“A reminder to buy saffron to colour the warden pies.”

“But what is a warden pie? A pear tart.” Merlin swallows his groan.

“And not just any pears.”

“No, these pears are from Warden Abbey, in Bedfordshire.”

“You have three hours to make a perfectly-coloured warden pie.”

“On your mark.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!” Noel shouts.

Merlin can’t help it; he turns around and looks at Arthur. Arthur is slowly uncovering his ingredients. He runs a hand across the bowl of pears and looks up at Merlin. “Remember: fear is the mind-killer,” Arthur says in a soft voice.

“Right.” Merlin turns around and pulls his gingham cloth to the side. _Pie_ , he thinks. _I know how to make a pie_. He starts the pastry.

Saffron is used to colour—and flavour—the crust. It also contains egg yolk, and Merlin has no idea how it will taste. He decides to chill it until it’s time to roll it, and gets started on the filling.

Noel stops by as he adds spices to the pear filling. “Merlin, tell me how you’re feeling about this challenge.”

“It’s weird.”

“Well stated.”

“I’ve never been to Bedford, actually, or Warden Abbey.”

“Oh yeah? That’s where I’m from.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Merlin chuckles, and Noel gives him an eyebrow waggle before sashaying off. Merlin hears a muffled exclamation and he spins around.

“What happened?” Noel asks.

Arthur stands with arms akimbo, eyes wide and fixed on his crust. “I don’t even know.” It looks dry and patchy, like it hasn’t been mixed, but it’s stuck to his hands and the countertop. “How can it be too dry _and_ too sticky?”

“A horrible description,” Noel observes. Arthur makes a face. Noel grimaces and leaves him to it. Merlin sees Sandi’s eyes widen as she walks by and takes in the scene.

“You refrigerated it, right?” Merlin asks.

“How is it that everything goes bad all in one day? It’s like it’s set up.”

“Just keep working it.”

“It’s all I can do.”

“Do you…”

“Do I what?”

“Do you want me to make you a cup of tea?” Merlin asks.

“Oh god. I don’t think it’s that bad quite yet.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and goes back to work. He rolls his crust when the time is half gone, and it’s sticky, but manageable. “A nice long bake,” he tells the cameraman as he slides it in the oven. Plenty of time to get nice and golden.

A half-hour remains when he takes it out. He has no idea if it looks right, but it smells decent. He sets it aside to cool and firm up before the judgement. The countdown is uneventful; all of the bakers have pies ready before the announcement. They vary dramatically in design. They take a very short break as a result, and they’re lined up on stools before Merlin can take time to worry. He’s between Gwen and Mithian again, and they all link hands.

Paul rubs his hands together as the judges enter the tent. “I see.” He nods at the pies.

“Oh dear,” adds Prue. She gives them a soft smile.

“We want to see a crisp, flaky crust with a richly spiced pear filling, perfectly set, tidy, and delicious,” Paul says.

“Let’s see how you did.”

Percy’s is first. “This crust is great,” Paul observers. “But the pears are flavourless.”

Prue says Nimueh’s is “just lovely” with its evenly presented swirls of pear slices. She says Gwen’s is “nearly as well-present.” Merlin’s pie is next.

“Overbaked it.” He scratches some of the crust off with a fork. “But they bottom has a good flake.” He takes a bite. “Good flavour. Well cooked pears.”

“Not the best looking, though.”

“Definitely not.”

“But then this one.” Prue points to Arthur’s.

“Beautifully designed.” Paul stratches at the bottom. “Hm,” he says. They each take a bite. They chew. “Overworked. That crust…”

“It’s just solid. Tough.” Prue frowns. “Not at all what you want in a pie.”

Merlin sneaks a peek at Arthur and sees him clenching his jaw. Merlin bites his lip.

Lance and Mithian round out the group. Their warden pies are both good and nearly identical. The judges confer for mere minutes.

“In seventh place is this one,” Paul starts. He points to Arthur’s.

“Mine,” he admits.

“Arthur, that crust is not good.”

Prue points to Percy’s. “In sixth place.” Percy waves. “Percy, it seemed you forgot some of the spices. Don’t be timid.”

“This is in fifth.” Paul points to Merlin’s.

“That’s me.”

“Merlin. Not bad, but messy.”

Gwen is fourth and Lance is third. Mithian clutches Merlin’s hand like a vise. Prue looks between the final two. “In second place,” she says. “This one here.” She points to Nimueh’s and Merlin hears Mithian give a tiny gasp. “It is beautiful.”

“First place,” Paul says. “Mithian. It has style _and_ substance. Well-balanced spice with a flaky crust.” He nods at her. “Good job.”

Her thank you is drowned out by a chorus of applause.

 

“You made a pie!” Edric exclaims. They stand outside the back corner of the tent.

Merlin tries to smile, conscious of the camera. “It went okay. I should’ve laid out the pieces better.” He rubs at the canvas.

“But you were much higher than last week,” Edric points out.

“Fifth of seven?”

“Well, considering Arthur’s first round.”

Merlin stares at him. “Uh…”

“I know, you wouldn’t say anything, but it must be a relief at this point, yeah? To have someone else melt down like that.”

“Are you saying that to… Why are you saying that?”

“Because it’s true.” Edric lifts his hand as if to imply that’s obvious. He switches off the camera. “It’s okay. You’re too nice to say anything like that.” He looks around them. “I’m just happy you’ll be in the clear this week while he’s…” He shakes his head. “Let’s just say I won’t be sad.”

Merlin rubs at the back of his neck. “Oh. Okay.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Thanks Merlin. See you later.”

Merlin nods and walks away. He turns the corner around the tent. Arthur stands there, looking at him. Merlin opens his mouth. Arthur turns and quickly, deliberately, walks away. Merlin closes his eyes. He sighs.

 

Dinner conversation is limited. They’ve opted for a Thai place in town because The Rising Sun is too painful this first weekend without Gwaine. He’d be mad they’re mourning, Merlin knows. He’d also be mad they’re not talking more. Merlin keeps peeking at Arthur, but he avoids eye contact. Dinner is slow, though it takes less than an hour.

The laundry room is empty when Merlin enters. He waits. Nothing interesting is on Tumblr. The trending YouTube videos are all horrid music and makeup tutorials. He waits over an hour before he turns on the machine.

He doesn’t use fabric softener at all.

Sleep is elusive. He thinks about his father, long gone, until he finally drifts off.

 

Footsteps in the hall and a closing door wake him. The sun is just up, and Merlin showers, dresses, and goes to the bus. He is first on, and he sits just in time to watch Arthur, coffee-in-hand, shuffle out to join him. “Good morning,” Merlin greets him.

Arthur’s eyes are shadowed by bluish half-moons. He nods. “They’ll be able to hire a car next week.” His voice is scratchy.

Merlin grinds his teeth. “You think they’ll pack us into a people carrier?” The _us_ hangs in the air for a moment.

“I guess you’ll see.”

“Arthur.”

Arthur peeks up at him. His lips are pressed tightly together.

“You’ll see, too. I know it.”

Arthur opens his mouth to respond, but stops at the sound of footsteps climbing up to join them.

 

“Welcome back, bakers.” Noel smiles. “It is time for your showstopper challenge.”

“Verily,” Sandi agrees. “And today, we shall have ‘cakes and ale.’”

“Wait. I thought the saying was no more cakes and ale.”

“Only for the virtuous.”

“Oh. Phew. That’s a relief.”

“It is. And with that butchering of the bard complete—Paul and Prue would like you to make a Twelfth Night cake to celebrate this _Twelfth Night_ line.”

“Your Twelfth Night cake must be covered in marzipan and, as always, make a centerpiece befitting a duke’s table.”

“You have four and a half hours to create your Twelfth Night cake. On your mark.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

Twelfth Night cake is a beast of a cake. Merlin starts by setting his oven and preparing the big round tin. He grinds almonds and whisks eggs. He whips a batter with butter and flour and sugar, the eggs and almonds, and dried fruit. He zests a lemon, and turns it all out into the tin as Paul and Prue stop in front of him. “Merlin,” Prue greets him. “You’re having a good week so far.”

Paul nods. “Tell us about your cake.”

“It’s very traditional.” Merlin gestures. “Dried fruit in a sweet batter.”

“What fruits are you using?” Paul asks.

“Apricot, pineapple, sultanas, and some bits of cherry and cranberry.”

“Cherry?”

“Yes.”

Paul give him _the look_. “Hm.”

Noel laughs. “He’s trying to scare you, Merlin. He’s forgotten your cake ability.” He grins. “Cake-ability. That sounds like a television program.” He looks into the camera. “Just remember that was my idea.”

“We’ll just have to see,” says Paul. They walk on, and Anne comes close with a camera.

“This needs to bake for over two hours,” Merlin explains. He slides the tin into the oven and sets his timer. “And now I need to make the jam and the marzipan.”

Sculpting the marzipan is a slow, tedious process. Merlin shapes rosebuds and leaves. Then, he brushes them with colouring. He hums to himself as he leaves them to dry and checks his jam in the refrigerator. It’s fresh apricot, and Merlin sticks a finger in to see it’s nicely set. He pulls back and pops his finger into his mouth for a taste.

“Excuse me.”

Merlin turns. Arthur is standing behind him, waiting to get into the refrigerator. His eyes fix on Merlin’s finger, stuck between his lips. Merlin pulls his finger out, registering the slight slurping pop noise he makes. Arthur’s mouth twists in a pained expression. "I’m going to wash them before I handle anything,” Merlin tells him.

“Um.” Arthur blinks. He clears his throat.

“Oh. Sorry.” Merlin steps aside. He watches Arthur prod his own jam with a spoon. They look at each other. Arthur frowns. Merlin frowns back. “Is this because of what Edric said yesterday?” He swallows. He immediately regrets just asking like that. It occurs to him that, all things considered, he and Arthur aren’t even _really_ friends. It isn’t like they’ve hung out together outside of laundry.

“No,” Arthur responds after a few beats. He closes the refrigerator door and starts to walk away.

“Then what is it?”

“What is what?”

“Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve been avoiding me since yesterday afternoon.”

“Well, believe it or not, _Mer_ lin, not everything has anything to do with you.”

“I know, but this clearly does.” Merlin reaches out and grasps Arthur’s arm. Arthur freezes and looks down at Merlin’s hand, so Merlin lets go and slowly pulls it away. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Arthur purses his lips. “I’m –I—” He huffs. “I don’t know if I can pull this around. You’re probably relieved. We won’t see each other again.”

Merlin’s stomach turns over. “You think I wish you’ll be eliminated.”

“Me or anybody else. It’s a competition, right? I’m not… I’m not… special.”

Merlin opens his mouth. _You are_ , he thinks. _I don’t want you to go_. His timer starts to beep. Arthur looks toward it. Merlin chews at his lip.

“That’s your cake,” Arthur says.

“Yes, but—”

“Get your cake, Merlin.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Yes, your majesty,” he mutters.

Arthur rolls his eyes, too. Merlin feels those eyes on his back while he sets the timer for a half-hour to cool the cake. He turns around when he’s done and walks back to Arthur’s station. “I know it’s a competition, but I don’t wish that.” Merlin’s voice is low, and the cameras seem to be ignoring them. “I… I like spen—hanging out with you.” He exhales. “I’d like it if we were friends. Like real friends. Not just here.”

Arthur’s brows dip. “I… “

“I was going to text you.” Arthur’s eyes widen, and Merlin continues. “Not like—I mean—I don’t want to—I… Gwaine came over.”

Arthur looks momentarily stunned. “Oh. I thought you and Edric…”

Merlin is confused. _What does Edric have to do with anything?_ “It isn’t like that with Edric.”

Arthur nods. “So Gwaine came over. That’s good. Good that you can still be… close.”

Merlin nods. “Anyway I was going to text, to see how the hearing went.”

“It went well.”

“I know. You told me.”

“Right.” Arthur’s timer goes. He taps at it and picks up a dish towel.

“I’m going to get some water,” Merlin says. He shakes his head at himself as he walks away. _What just happened?_

 

Merlin is still adjusting the marzipan flowers when Noel announces the final minute. He is smoothing the edges when Sandi calls out that time is up. He puts his cake stand at the end of his station and tries to evaluate it objectively. It’s simple, but sophisticated. More importantly, he knows it should taste good. He has made four of them this week, and this one looks the best.

A runner meets him at the main exit. “Merlin, Vivienne wants to see you and Arthur both.”

“Both?”

“Yes.”

Merlin turns and sees Arthur behind him, face bemused. They meet her beside a moss-covered fountain.

“Boys,” Vivienne greets them.

“Aunt Viv,” Arthur replies.

Vivienne gives Merlin a penetrating look. “Who wants to go first?”

“Um, sure,” he says. He steps up. The crew has multiple cameras on him. “Why did you change the setup?”

“We’re just trying some different things.” She peeks over at Arthur, and Merlin realizes there’s another camera directed at him. “So, Merlin, how did that round go?”

“I think that went well. It was just like practise.” He sees Arthur’s eyes narrow. “What?”

Arthur shrugs. “Nothing.”

“You made a face.”

“No I didn’t.”

Merlin shakes his head. “He did,” he tells Vivienne. “Anyway, even with practise, my cake doesn’t look like Arthur’s, so.” He shrugs.

“What?”

“Your cake. You can do all that… stuff.” He waves his hand.

“What, cake decorating?” Arthur scoffs.

“Yeah, it’s kind of important here. That’s why Paul always says my work is sloppy.”

“Yes, but he says mine doesn’t taste very good. Style over substance.”

“No, you just experiment more with flavours and try different combinations.” He watches Arthur make another face. “Okay, what flavours are your Twelfth Night cake?”

“White chocolate, raspberry, and almond.”

“See?”

“What?”

“Mine’s a regular old fruitcake.”

“That everyone will say is the best they’ve ever tasted.”

“I saw yours, remember? They’ll say it’s the best they’ve ever seen.”

“Pfft.” Arthur rolls his eyes hard.

“It is! You did all that intricate work with the gold leaf and, and was that royal icing?” Arthur nods. “Which you were rubbish at during Biscuit Week, which means you just learned how to do it in the past week, yeah?”

“I knew how before, it just… messed up.”

“I don’t... I’m not wrong. But that just means if you got the flavour right, you’d be…” Merlin shakes his head. “You _are_ …” He trails off. The camera crew is silently leaning forward. Vivienne’s face is completely, forcefully neutral. Merlin swallows. “Sorry,” he says.

“I think we have everything we need. Thanks!” Her voice is bright. “And Arthur, your sister says she tried to call you several times last week. Do call her, dear.”

“Yes, Vivienne.”

As Merlin reenters the tent, he studies all seven Twelfth Night cakes. Arthur’s is masterfully designed, but so are Mithian’s and Nimueh’s. Percy’s bakes are usually so detailed and precise, Merlin is shocked by this one’s simplicity. Lance’s, too, is simple and slightly sunk in the middle. Gwen’s has delicately-layered royal icing that shows her careful, skilled hand. He thinks about Arthur’s disastrous warden pie and his unset posset from the day before. Suddenly, Merlin realizes this could actually be it. Arthur might go out this week. He closes is eyes. He tells himself it’s because they are friends. _Liar_ , says a voice in the back of his head.

 

“Merlin, please bring forward your Twelfth Night cake.”

_First_ , he thinks. He sighs and takes his cake to the front of the tent.

Prue nods. “It’s simple, but elegant.”

Paul stares at it. “It’s effective. Not exactly what you’d expect, but well done.” He picks up the knife. “Let’s see.” He slices it and pulls out a good-sized wedge.

“Are we going to find a bean in here?” Prue asks.

“No, not today.” Merlin watches them each take a bite.

“It’s delicious,” Prue declares. “You really do know your cakes, Merlin.”

Paul nods. “It’s a good mix of flavour. The sharpness of the sour cherry and cranberries lifts what could be too sweet with the other fruit you’ve included. And the apricot jam is very well done.”

“Thank you.” Merlin shakes on his way back to his station.

Mithian’s cake is judged next, and they love it. Gwen’s would probably be judged better were she not next, but they point out a very slight underbake.

“Lance,” Sandi calls. “Please bring up your cake.”

Prue frowns at it. “Very underbaked,” she observes.

“That’s why it’s sunk in.” Paul cuts into it. “Yeah.” He pushes on the inside and shows how it mashes. “Twelfth Night cake needs two, two and a half hours to bake completely.”

Lance nods. “I had forgotten to turn the oven on,” he admits. “Distracted.”

Nimueh is next, and her decoration is masterful. She’s done a toffee apple flavour that Prue calls “interesting.”

“Arthur, please bring forward your cake.” It is perfectly smoothed and flaked with a lace-like gold. Royal icing intricately crisscrosses the edges. Sugared fruit finishes the top. It is stunning.

“This really is something,” Prue says.

“Let’s see inside.” Paul slices into it. He puts it on a plate and frowns. He brushes against it with the fork and watches the crumbs.

“A bit dry.” Prue’s voice is low.

Arthur clasps his hands behind his back. Merlin can see him squeezing until his knuckles turn white.

“It’s overbaked,” Paul says. He takes a bite. “Interesting flavour, though. If it wasn’t overdone, I think it would be good.”

“It’s a shame.”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

“Percy, please bring up your cake.”

 

Merlin turns around as soon as the crew stops filming. Arthur’s eyes meet his, then drift away. Merlin tries to say something, but he can’t think. A runner announces it will be a short break, and Merlin goes to the catering tent for a banana. He wanders around the garden for a few minutes and then makes his way back inside.

The stools are out, and Merlin sits near the middle. A designer drifts about, positioning things on the set. Merlin stares at the entrance until Arthur enters, almost as if he’s been summoned. He is silent, and he sits beside Merlin. Merlin sighs. He hears Arthur echo him. Merlin is still and quiet, and Arthur’s leg presses against his. They are silent, as are the others, as people fill in around them.

Noel steps forward when the time comes. “Bakers, it has been a great week, and I get the honour of announcing this week’s star baker.

“This week’s star baker is a true Renaissance… woman. She has mastered the alchemy of possets and the engineering of cake. This week’s star baker is… Mithian!”

Merlin looks across Arthur and sees Mithian’s jaw drop. Her wide eyes brim with unshed tears and her chin lifts. She beams as everyone claps and cheers. They quieten and seem to take a collective breath. Gwen takes Merlin’s right hand and squeezes. He squeezes back.

Sandi pulls in a deep inhalation. “That of course means I have the hard job this week. As always, one of you will not be with us next week.” Her eyes skim over each of them. Gwen squeezes. Merlin hears Arthur let out a long breath. Merlin shifts his leg, and his left hand slides against Arthur’s.

Sandi takes another breath. “The baker who will not be joining us next week…” Merlin feels Arthur’s pinky finger slip around and link with his. He looks down at it. He pushes his hand down on top of Arthur’s, just as Sandi finishes. “Is Lance.”

Arthur gasps.

“Oh,” Gwen says.”

“Lance you darling boy, come here.” Sandi advances on them, and suddenly everyone is up except Merlin and Arthur. Merlin looks at his hand, then looks at Arthur. Arthur looks back, and he turns his hand over so their palms meet. Then he pulls back and stands. They are absorbed by the group.

 

“Let me drive you home.” Arthur finds Merlin as he picks up his duffel in the inn lobby. Merlin turns and looks at Arthur, whose hair is catching sunlight from the windows behind him.

“Deal.”

Arthur’s smile looks relieved. “Okay, I’m ready when you are.” He looks around. “Did you say goodbye already?”

“I did. I’m having dinner with Gwen—and now Lance—on Wednesday.”

“Oh, okay.” Arthur leads him out to his car and puts their luggage in the back.

As they pull onto the motorway, Merlin glances at Arthur. “I’m… I’m sad it was Lance, but I’m glad you’ll be back next week.”

Arthur’s smile is crooked. “Me too.”

“So you don’t think I was hoping you’d be booted?”

“I—It just sounded like it, okay?”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t jump to conclusions you wouldn’t make faulty assumptions.”

“You sound like my sister. Or my mother.”

“Your sister who tried to call you all week.”

“That would be Morgana. No telling what she wants.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you knew Morgana, you’d know it could be anything. But it’s probably some dinner party she wants me to be at.”

“To cook or just attend?”

“Who knows?” Arthur smiles, though, and his face softens.

“Tell me about her.”

Arthur chuckles. “Well, we were cats and dogs for years. Morgana has a lot of… opinions.”

“I like her already.”

 

It’s late afternoon when Arthur stops outside Merlin’s building and Merlin thanks him for the ride. Arthur hands him his duffel and closes the hatch. “I’ll, um, see you next weekend,” Merlin says.

Arthur looks up the street, then at the ground. “You, you said you were going to text before Gwaine… came over. Before.”

“Yeah. To see about the week.”

“I’d… That would be cool.” He squints a little, almost a wince. “If you’re bored, you know.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, I know you’ve got Gwaine. And a lot of friends.”

“Well, Gwaine isn’t always the best one to talk to, so.”

Arthur smiles. “I’ll see you Friday night, Merlin.”

“Okay. Arthur.” He starts to turn away, but Arthur takes a side step with his arms slightly raised. _Is he hugging me?_ Merlin thinks. He starts to lift his own arms, but then Arthur seems to change his mind. He reaches out, and Merlin meets his hand for another shake. “Thank you,” Merlin stammers.

Arthur nods and lets out a shaky laugh. He stares at Merlin for a hard moment, and then gets in his car and drives away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then there were six.
> 
> Also, I've seen the first few episodes of the latest GBBO series and OMFG these people are ADORABLE and AMAZING and I love them so much.
> 
> Week seven is in the works, but at this point I'm afraid to make any guesses. Hopefully I'll say, "It'll be a while," and that'll reverse-psychology me into it not taking two months?


End file.
